


Time Machines Made Easy (Don't Try This At Home)

by Besin



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was High School, and Demyx thought his life had ended the day Zexion caught him masturbating in the boy's bathroom. But now it's not High School, and he works for the man. The man he is undeniably attracted to. The man who is, undeniably, a genius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Scientists, Popularity, and the Man Who Can't Get Laid

Shoes and tidal waves made great sources, Zexion found, to power his Machine of Time. (He refuses to call it a Time Machine.) The first source was nearly inexhaustible, given the right trip in the right neighborhood with the right extending ladder and a good pair of scissors. Tidal waves seemed to be a different story, despite how we were floating in an inflatable raft just off a stretch of Long Beach. His device-thing was in the water, reading the levels of power it generated. The pod itself was nice and dry at home. I shifted from cheek to cheek (I was sitting,) idly wondering if that cloud of smoke billowing from the mouth of the small contraption he was sticking his head in was a bad thing. A string of almost-curses from the man's lips told me it was at least a minor problem.

“Too much power- I'll need another converter.” He sighed.

My head tilted in confusion. “I thought you needed a lot of power for this... Time... Machine... thingy.”

“It's not a Time Machine, Demyx,” he snapped. “It's a pod specifically designed to delve into the inner cortex with delicate strings of electromagnetic signals that interact with and temporarily configure the brain in order to place the person inside in a simulation of a prior protein configuration. A Machine of Time.” He turned and looked at me, then, his blue-gray (periwinkle?) hair flopping in front of his right eye before he put down the electricity-reading-machine-thingy and a hand came up to brush it away and tug it into the ponytail it had escaped from. It stood up on his head a lot like that guy's ponytail from that one anime. Kinda suited him. “You didn't catch a word of that, did you?”

I leaned forward, then back, shifting my weight in an attempt to stave off boredom. “Of course I did. It's a Time Machine, then.”

“Idiot.” He turned back to the contraption, tiny wrench thing in hand to make some minor adjustments as I wasted away to nothing due to boredom.

“If power is such a problem,” I mumbled, “then just get a battery.”

There was a rustle, then the deep clang of a head colliding with technology- or, well, metal. Zexion pulled out of the contraption, groaning and rubbing his head. Instead of almost-cursing some more, though, he opted to fix me with a look. “What?”

I blinked. “What?”

“What did you just say?”

“I said, 'what.'”

“No, before that.”

“I said, 'If power is such a problem then just get a battery.'” Really- he was making such a big deal about- whoa! Zexion on the move alert!

He was packing up.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“You say a lot of things, Demyx,” he replied, tweaking a hinge here and a nozzle there. Within seconds the Machine of Time power measurement thing was loaded in to the raft and he was starting the engine, aiming us back to shore, then stored the entire thing (reasonably deflated) in the flatbed of my truck (which was the only reason he brought me along, because I'd actually taken his never-learned-to-drive-butt all the way from Walla Walla to Oysterville. That, and I was his lab assistant. The guy actually got Government Grant money for this.) “A lot of them are wrong on so many levels.” One would think that Zexion wouldn't have the energy to place everything we'd brought in the back. The entire thing was as if I'd missed a step in the transition since he was heaving and coughing and gasping for air but I never saw him strain in the first place. I would have helped, but he told me to never, ever touch his equipment unless he specifically ordered me to. Ever. Moving on, before I could ask him if he was okay he was wheezing out, “But sometimes I can't believe you're not a genius.”

I took the line at face-value because he was a genius and half the things that come out of his mouth are not meant to be understood. A quick, “Thanks?” and my turn was done.

And then he paused, turning back to look into Willapa Bay. Something in me whispered that he was taking in the view, but he was a genius who liked machines, and geniuses who liked machines didn't appreciate things like the large stretch of calm, slightly murky water that wasn't the ocean. Zexion surely couldn't be taking in the view, because we were on Long Beach and the view was on the other side.

However, I had to admit it was nice, gazing off into the bay, where at the far-side you could make out the shapes of what might be the Cascade Mountains some immeasurable stretch away. The clouds dipped down, lining the horizon above them and bubbling over Washington, no doubt raining on some poor soul. (But that was Washington. If it wasn't raining then it was ninety degrees or snowing.) And it may have occurred to me that Zexion chose Oysterville- and this spot- for that very reason.

But geniuses weren't like that, so I brushed it off. There was probably something in the water here that was detrimental to his experiment or something. Some type of algae found only in Oysterville. (Although I doubt algae has anything to do with a Time Machine.) And so, I hopped into the car, Zexion following soon after, and drove for who-knows-how-many-hours back to Walla Walla, where the desert wind nipped at our lungs and everyone was wary of everything despite living smack-dab in the middle of nowhere.

...

In case you're wondering, he later gave me a very dumbed down version of what his project did later. (He'd been dumbing it down for ages, apparently, and I'd almost understood him in Oysterville but I'm just not all that bright. I may be his assistant, but I have no idea what I'm doing.) The Machine of Time plays around in your head and makes you relive memories. By installing a battery he could control exactly how much power goes to what and still have extra juice if something went wrong. Like a power outage.

A week later I was his first guinea pig. I should have been terrified, but I wasn't. This was Zexion. He was a genius. Geniuses don't mess up on things they've been working on for years. Because they're geniuses.

“So what will I be reliving?” I asked as he strapped me into the machine. It was kind of exciting. That look he gave me, however, when I asked? Not so much. His expression was something between boredom and curiosity, but between his lip and his dimple was just a touch of sadism.

This scared me.

“The part of life everyone wants to go back to,” he drawled. A chill went up my spine. “High school.”

My eyes widened, and I moved to object but the pod closed and everything was dark and I could only mentally almost-curse and twitch and- Just no. Holy flying jellyfish jumping over the rainbow to steal skittles from the Lucky Charms Leprechaun no! No, no, no!

…

Chem class is horrible.

Being as horrible as it is, you don't want to have a bad day in Chem class. And I am really bad at Chem. Now, I usually managed to avoid said days rather well seeing as my partner was Super Nerd Zexion, Lord of the Dorks, and he would write down the answers for me in his notes, then slide them over the table, but today was an exception. Zexion was there, yes. Today was going well, even. However, it was going too well. That was the problem. We all know that high school is a point of discovery and exploration. A time to find ourselves in a crowd of people and create who we will be for the rest of our lives.

Well, this little creation had a boner and a thing for nerds. Especially distracted nerds. And Zexion was very, very distracted. By what, I had no idea. But he would occasionally glance out the window and stare for a good ten seconds before turning his eyes back to the teacher. Was he scared of lightning or something? Or thunder? The news did say something about a thunderstorm that morning.

But back to the boner.

See, right beneath that Chem desk my little friend had decided that today, in all its overcast glory, would be a great day to stand at attention every time Zexion glanced out the window, which is a good hop, step, and a jump worse than his usual twitches every other day when he was perfectly focused. And the two guys sharing the apartment beneath him were turning a bit blue in the face in anger. (Thankfully, Super Nerd to my side, Zexion, didn't seem to notice or care. This is a relief as getting anywhere near the kid outside the whole “using him for a Chem grade” thing would not bode well with my social standing. Popularity is a fickle thing, my friend. Talking to a geek during class? In fact, talking to a geek at all? That's a no-no.)

I couldn't go out to my car. That would be too obvious. I'd have to walk all the way through the parking lot and hide it with my... backpack? I really didn't know. It wasn't like I had a messenger bag or a satchel to put over top. But soon the bell would ring and I was very aware of the fact that my English teacher was expecting me after lunch.

But wasn't it obvious? I could simply wait until the class vacated and go to the bathroom! No one wants to jerk off in a stall, but beggars can't be choosers. I was brilliant!

My only defense is that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

When the rest of the class vacated I headed to the Science Wing's bathroom. No one used it since the janitors didn't stock it with toilet paper. So I checked beneath every stall for legs, and after finding nothing I locked the bathroom door and ducked into the second booth (because the middle is always the way to go,) undoing my belt on the way.

The entire event was nice, but more than just a bit lackluster. (I was probably the one guy in the universe who sucked at jerking off. After a while it got to the point where when I'd think of jerking off I'd think of how bad I am at jerking off. And, by extension, I'd think of how bad I am at sex. Man, am I bad at sex.) But it was better than usual- and I was in a bathroom stall- so I couldn't complain. But when I flushed there was laughter. Not, “Hardy-har-har, Demyx O'Donohue is masturbating in the bathroom! He's so not cool any more,” laughter. More like, “I didn't think I'd ever witness something like this,” amusement.

So, naturally, I packed myself away, washed my hands, worked my thumbnail into the space reserved for a screwdriver to unlock the first stall's door, and pulled it open. The occupant had the gall to look surprised. There, seated cross-legged on the toilet was one Zexion Corazza, complete with Chem textbook. But the thing is, it wasn't a Chem textbook. Well, the cover said it was, but it obviously wasn't, what with the, “Advanced Biology” glittering at the top of the two pages that stared up at us.

“Aren't you late for your daily swirly?” I asked.

“It's hardly daily.”

“But it was planned.”

“That's not too hard to figure out.”

Cue a sigh. “Why are you reading in the boys' bathroom? You missed your swirly. You're just making it worse.”

“Why are you jerking yourself off in the boys' bathroom?” was his clever rebuttal.

I paused. “Touche.” Leaning against the stall, I sighed. “So why this bathroom? Why this stall?”

He shrugged. “Well, no one comes here. There's no toilet paper, and the smoke detectors are really sensitive.” Turning his eyes back to his text book, he pulled out a pen and marked it- because those were the days when all the textbooks were fill-in-the-blank because the school districts could afford new textbooks every year. It's a very efficient process, now that I think on it. “That, and the first stall is always the best, you know?”

“I dunno. I've always been pretty fond of the second.” And this was about when the creation started getting another boner. Thankfully, Zexion couldn't tell. Not-so-thankfully, when I made my escape something important had fled my (blissfully restricted) attention. The fact that Zexion was a Super Nerd with a vendetta against cool kids, myself not excluded.

“So what do I get if I keep quiet about this?” This made me pause. Or, rather, the thought of shoving the talkative nerd to the floor and shoving my erection down his throat resulted in an inability to move my legs. It just so happens that at that moment Zexion happened to say that. “I have the ultimate blackmail material and a motive to use it. A rumor's a rumor; doesn't matter who starts it. It'll get around, and it'll get around fast. What will you do to keep my mouth shut?” But if he kept his mouth open... Yeah. Shut up. Not helping.

Thinking fast, which is saying something as I'm not one of those smart people, I dropped my backpack to the floor and pulled out a slip of paper and a pencil. “Here's my address and phone number,” I narrated, jotting them down against the bathroom wall. “Call me if you ever need help, or just drop by. Like if your parents kick you out for the night.”

Moving from his stall and walking forward to take the slip, he blinked. “You serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

There was a lull.

He looked up hopefully. “Do you play video games?”

…

I woke with a start. It was dark at first, but then a crack of light that should have burned my eyes gently played across my retinas until Zexion was there undoing the restraints. “I see it was painless.”

“Yeah, but- what?” He seemed puzzled by my reaction. “Shouldn't you be asking if it worked?”

“Parts of you seem to be attempting to spring a leak. And I'm not talking the yellow kind.”

“But- wha'?” And then, when I looked down, lo and behold...

He spun on his heel, then, which was completely unnecessary and looked very... not straight. You know. Gay. “You were out for about an hour. Had to choose which memory frame to replay.” Zexion made his way over to a computer where what could only be a digital reconstruction of my brain was rotating. “It took a while, but I managed to find that day we really became aware of each other.”

“You were watching me-”

“-the day you jerked yourself off in a bathroom stall next to the Super Nerd.” I blinked at this. “A handy feature- your thought process comes with subtitles.” But that- “Didn't know you sucked at jerking off.” Dear lord. “And sex.” He paused, allowed me a moment to steep in my mortification. “It seems to be the will of God that I be allowed an unending supply of blackmail material on you.”

“You're an atheist.”

“Signs of any sort can be presented to many people. Those who can recognize such events are usually blessed with knowledge in spades. Only the ignorant can ignore such obvious patterns in the universe. The many ignorant beings, naturally, must include you somewhere Mr. Bathroom Stall.” Zexion, many people don't realize, is a very long-winded and sarcastic person. What usually takes people half a sentence and a witty joke to get across takes him a good two paragraphs, four sets of blackmail, and seven very witty biting remarks. Naturally, it takes him forever to make a point. Why no one else can see this I will never know.

Maybe they're blind. “Anyways, when am I going to see your memories?”

He paused. “Well...” Seeming to think it over for a second, the man sighed. “I guess it would be a tribute to the 'humane' way of running things that I allow you to take a peek. I have to configure it to be idiot proof anyway.” Turning on the ball of his foot- again- the blunette stared me down. “But keep in mind that everything you see I will know you have touched. Every memory you peruse. Every timeline you consider. Every moment. You. Blink.” As if he didn't already.

Two weeks later, he sat me down in front of something very reminiscent of Windows Media Player. “Each file is cued to an entire day in my life. You move the slider to choose hours. Some days are not shown for a reason as they are mentally scarring, and since everyone has those kinds of days- even you- it's best to leave them be.”

As I am human, the moment he went into the pod I searched the player for the time one spends in high school. Payback, as it were. And there it was, labeled under “fifteen.”

October eleventh, 1985, a Friday- our Sophomore year of high school. The day we really met.

But when it prompted me with a slider my hand slipped, and suddenly I was looking at a book under a lamp late at night with a highlighter held at the ready. Subtitles were filling up a good half of the screen. All of it was scientific mumbo-jumbo. Most of it was numbers.

This guy really has no life.

Five minutes, and nothing so much as changed. Numbers. So many numbers. It was nauseating.

But suddenly the subtitles ceased as something seemed to tap on the window. Then again. No subtitles yet. Next, another one shortly follow by two others. The boy raced to the sill, and what Demyx expected to see was the view from his second story window, looking down at some nerdy girl from school who was obsessed with his Chem paper or something. Instead, he looked off into the sky as it opened up to the world in a torrent of water.

Rain.

The subtitles were back. No more numbers, no more guessing. “Oh, duh,” I whispered to myself. “It rained that day.”

He stuck his hand out over the sill just as a bolt of lightning grazed a tree nearby. It smoldered for a second under his wary gaze, but was soon smothered by the rain. Without warning, he bolted to his desk, picking up a small slip of paper- my address and phone number- and the subtitles read through my address, but not in any normal way. He gave the numbers animals, then colors, then settled on a colored animal before outlining how to get to the street. After this he threw on his shoes, tugged on a jacket, and was out running in the rain.

Demyx. Rain. Honest.

There was more to the subtitles than that, but it was a series of figures and such. He must have been thinking in images. Or something like that.

Left, straight, straight, right, left, and look around until you see the blue giraffe.

Then there was a beep and the screen went black. The fifteen minutes were over.

“You've got to be kidding!” I shouted.

I was getting a bit sick of being a creation. No, I wasn't angry about what happened next, because he'd get to the house and no one would answer. Mom had taken me to an eye appointment and Dad was out fishing. He'd show up to school the next day, and he never called me out on that favor. Still hasn't.

…

Now, you all may be wondering just why I'm Zexion's assistant. See, I waited a tad before entering college- a tad being four years. Why? Well, I didn't exactly have a plan to pay for it so I just took a break to work. A lot. Save money and stuff. In my third year I had to get the science credits I'd been avoiding. But, seeing as I didn't know anything about high school science, let along college, I didn't exactly pass. My wallet wasn't happy about this, as you can imagine.

So, Zexion, completely out of the blue may I add, offered me a position as his lab assistant at the beginning of my fourth year. (I'm twenty-six- a good nine months older than Zexion's twenty-five since the guy's an August baby.) Being a genius, he graduated early and got his Doctorate with a paper on brain functions or... something science-related. He'd been teaching university for a good year at that point and still hadn't found an assistant. (Well, he did, but the guy was caught stealing equipment. He was fired. I think I already mentioned that.) In fact, he was the teacher who flunked me. So, this is how I'm getting my science credit. And I'm being paid for it.

His reasoning? Ending the evening grading horribly written papers was not on the list of things he enjoyed. Especially papers written by me. And since I had impeccable handwriting and a photographic memory he took me on.

Why he asked me instead of one of the reasonably attractive bimbos easily twice as stupid as me with enormous breasts and even better handwriting, I will never know.

Moving on, today Zexion was distracted. Not a good thing for the hormone parade. So I excused myself to the bathroom.

Zexion's lab was actually a shed that he had refitted to be a machine shop. Because of this there wasn't any plumbing. So I had to go into the main house to use it. The bathroom itself was nice- especially for a bachelor living on his own. It even had one of those toilet covers. But I wasn't there to admire the decor. First I washed most of the machine grease from my fingers. They remained stained, but I was used to it not coming all the way off. Once suitably clean, I just, you know, started masturbating. Used a bit of lotion from the sink and got to it. Didn't try to take a piss, clear my head, will it down with disturbing thoughts of people I hated in bikinis- those never really worked for me. Either I had a boner or I didn't. There was no willing transition from one to the other. The more I tried to ignore it the longer it would be there. Taunting me. Tormenting me.

After that I washed my hands. Again. As you may have well figured, as I aged I didn't get any better at masturbating. To tell the truth, I may have gotten worse. Fact of the matter is that it wasn't that great and the job was done. There was no need to catch my breath afterward because the whole event wasn't jaw dropping, heart stopping, or breath stealing in the least. It was more of a chore than a pleasure.

And when I walked out of the bathroom who else should be there but Zexion?

“How was it, Mr. Bathroom Stall? I trust you had fun?” he asked, all smirks and shits and giggles. The man was insufferable.

Okay, I'm lying. He looked bored. Very bored. Like, “reading the paper on a Thursday morning with the editorials missing” bored.

“Not really.”

“Oh, right,” the man mused, sipping from a can of Ginger Ale. “Suck at masturbation. Got it.” He was being unusually straightforward that day. I probably would have socked him if he didn't state it as absolute fact. It wasn't mocking. Zexion didn't mock. Either it wasn't in him or he found it illogical. Probably the latter. He offered me a can.

With a sigh, I took it. “At least I'm honest about it.” Ginger Ale is nice. Settles your stomach, and tastes good. Not to be confused with Ginger Soda, which is gross. So very gross.

Zexion seemed to pause at my statement, on a completely different page than myself. Obviously. He was a genius. He didn't need to think about the difference between Ginger Ale and Ginger Soda as the guy already knew them automatically, being a genius. Because geniuses were like that. “Yeah,” he mused, taking a sip. “Yeah, you are.”

Then he was distracted again, and I excused myself to write up some papers he wanted.

…

“What I will never understand,” Zexion began, only to pause and I nearly jumped out of my seat in surprise. “Scared you?”

“Yes,” I squeaked. I'd been deep in concentration, recalling his exact words from earlier in the day to write up notes for the man. Hadn't even heard him approach. A deep breath later I was fine. “Go on.”

“I don't understand how you could have such low grades,” the man mused, reaching forward to grab the paper and scanning my writing with a heavy gaze. “Your memory doesn't allow flaws when it recounts things you have read.”

I shrugged. “My memory may be photographic, but that doesn't mean I can understand anything. Stuff kind of flies right over my head.” Snatching the paper back up, I moved to keep writing.

“It's more than that,” he continued. “You remember everything I say, too. I'd go as far as to say you're the most useful assistant in the country.” A flush spilled across my face at the praise. “Now, you should probably get home.” Wait- what? “It's getting late, and we have a presentation tomorrow morning for the board.” Ah, yes. The people that hired us. A glance at my watch proved it was, indeed, getting late. Almost ten. The sky was even dark. How had I not noticed?

…

Two days later I woke up to find that my stock of disposable contacts was empty. Glasses- out of prescription or not- were a must, or I could wander around town completely blind. Thankfully, now that I was a fully grown man I could actually wear the godforsaken horn-rimmed monstrosities without worrying about a crowd of people staring down at me, judging every inch of the metal rims with cruel eyes, waiting for me to turn my back so they could grab me by my underpants and drag me to a swirly doom. And it seemed the world had begun to graduate from this mentality. Thank goodness. (And people wondered why I went to such lengths to be popular in High School. It was a defense mechanism. When you're a bisexual with a photographic memory in the 80's usually your only option was to hide. Hide very well. So I hid in plain sight. It was probably the smartest idea I ever had.)

I digress. That day at work I looked nerdier than the Super Nerd, Zexion. Of course, that wasn't very hard. As the man had grown he'd stopped sporting the classic nerd-wear. Instead he wore jeans, T-shirts, and chucks. In fact, with his young, perfectly formed face you'd think he was one of those grunge groupies. I, on the other hand, was clad in a flannel, some old slacks, steel-toed boots, and a pair of contacts that I managed to pick up from the eye-doctor. But I had an appointment on Sunday to upgrade my prescription, so he only gave me one pair. I'd have to spend two days in horn-rims.

But, as I didn't have to hide any more I didn't really care. However, when I got home my flannel ripped, and a quick check of all my clothes prompted the epiphany that they were falling apart. And that, my friend, was my cue to get a new wardrobe. However, there was no giving up the steel-toes. No way.

After a lengthy trip to the Goodwill bins in the rich area two towns over (where you pay by the pound so everything's dirt cheap while still managing to be brand new) and an eye appointment, the next Wednesday I showed up to work clad in a new clothes and new glasses. Ones that, oddly, didn't look dorky. Who knew? Oh- and it was comfy. Very comfy. (Normally it takes forever to get the glasses cut and prescribed and stuff, but the place I go to has all the equipment there, as well as backup lenses.)

And when I got to work Zexion glared. “Still trying to be popular?”

“Hmm?” I puzzled. I stared. I tried to think on what he'd said. Nothing came to mind. “Come again?”

“Your clothes.”

“What about them?”

“They're new.”

“My old wardrobe wore out.”

“It wore out months ago. You just noticed?”

I was slightly offended. “Last Friday, yeah.”

He paused. Then he gave me a once over. It was strange, being on the receiving end. Did it feel just as weird when you didn't know it was happening? I wonder. “Looks good.” Wait, what?

My brain promptly died a horrible, horrible death. “Come again?”

“I said, 'Looks good.'” He blushed and- wait, what?!

He turned his back and I decided to change the subject. “Doesn't matter how it looks- it's comfy.”

Then he faced me, seemed to sputter for a bit, then laughed. Didn't know why, but he laughed! And it wasn't sarcastic or condescending, and it didn't have to do with a dry joke made by a scientist visiting town. “You got dress clothes in your new comfy ensembles?”

“Yeah.” I couldn't stop grinning. Must have looked like such a goof. So, instead of embarrassing myself any further, I sat backwards in a chair. That never looked cool- unless lazy was the new cool.

Zexion's eyebrows rose. “You're not trying to be cool?” I idly wondered if he waxed his eyebrows.

On a whim, I decided to start dancing. In the chair. It was a wheeling desk chair, so it moved back and forth a bit with the movement. My arms were crossed, my palms near my knees, and my left hand was doing that one “Jazz” something or other. Rather poorly. My legs were pushing me sideways, back arched, and I was bobbing my head along to an invisible song. “Would a cool kid do THIS?” And with that, my butt started wiggling, too. It got to the point where the only this keeping still was my right hand, which remained with its thumb tucked behind my left knee.

And then Zexion smiled. Dear lord almighty- he smiled and it was aimed at me and I didn't know what to do with myself. He was laughing, too, and I couldn't quite believe what was going on. So with the index finger of my right hand I pushed up the thick bridge of my wire-rimmed glasses and tried to look smart. The man couldn't seem to stop laughing. It was amazing. Before long he was bent over, clutching his stomach as guffaws wracked his form. It was the first time I'd seen him like that. Who'd have known the guy was a sucker for self-deprecating physical comedy? Then again, who isn't?

“No,” he finally managed between gasps for air. “No, they would not.” When he finally caught his breath he was still smiling. But what he said next just blew me away entirely. “I do believe you just made my day.”

Cue the boner.

“Well, we should get to testing,” the man stated, turning to the computer. “Get in the pod.”

I glared at the Time Machine. We'd gone an entire week without working on it (it was only one of many projects) but it seemed some kind of Karma was getting back at me for something. For what, I had no idea. Knowing I would be beyond uncomfortable, I climbed on in anyway. It's not like I could ask for a bathroom break.

This time, the memory was a bit more pleasant. However, it wasn't something I wanted to share. A girl and I were on the couch watching movies. Action ones, as they are the safest territory out there. Romance tends to get them excited, scary ones have the creatures clinging to your arm like duct tape, and comedy- well, you can imagine. It gets them to like you really quick.

And so, I suffered through the first fifteen minutes of my date with something akin to pleasured apprehension. The emotions of the date flooded through me, as did the thought process. But about ten minutes in, disaster struck.

Throughout the movie, younger me had realized a striking resemblance between the main character and Zexion. You can imagine what happened, you know, down there.

Next thing I know, the girl's laughing. Then she's on her knees and- no! How could I not have realized?

It was our third date and she was giving me a blowjob. Now, it was pretty fantastic head. I'm not complaining. Most guys would be more than willing to share this kind of thing with other people, if just for the reputation it could bring on for him. However, I'm not normal guys. During a blowjob I don't think about the game, or the next homework project, or the fantastic head I was receiving. In fact, I don't even have the luxury of being a figurative Zombie. I just think one name over and over again.

Zexion.

And there younger me started, on that mental mantra of, “Zexion, Zexion, Zexion,” no doubt imagining what the man- at that time teen- would look like if he were naked. (And, lo and behold, “Naked Zexion.”) Throughout all of this, though, older me was well aware that said man could see everything younger me was thinking at that moment.

Naturally, I finished quick, what with it being the best sexual experience of my life and all.

Two horrifying minutes later I was released from my figurative prison and into a literal one. Zexion was a bit slow opening the pod this time. He obviously didn't run right over and release me. (Double meaning not implied, but hoped for as my boner from earlier had morphed into a raging hard-on.) Before long, when nothing happened, I began to wiggle a bit in my restraints. They gave a bit. A good ten minutes later I had one arm free, and from there I removed the head-sticky-plunger-like-thingies that were affixed to my temples, along the other restraints. The door was not so compliant, but in a, “I don't feel like moving,” way.

By the time the pod allowed me to escape Zexion was nowhere to be found.

It then occurred to me that the hadn't been monitoring the process. At all. During the space of time between activating the machine and my awakening, he had walked away, leaving me to the whims of technology. This was both incredibly gratifying and slightly disappointing. Not to mention confusing. Shouldn't he be taking readings or something?

A sudden crash drew my attention to the main house, and I quickly exited and locked up the shed before racing into the other building without delay. Except, you know, I didn't actually run in. Boner and all, you know? Instead I shimmied up to the corner and peeked in through the back screen door. (Why was the door open? Had Zexion forgotten to close it? Or did he only intend to be in the house for a few seconds?)

“- never wanted things to come to this!” Weird. The voice wasn't one I knew, which was odd considering just how much time I spent with Zexion. Anyone he knew, I'd met at some point.

“Only an imbecile can't look straight in front in him and see a train!” Zexion, that time. A peek around the siding and through the screen brought only a view of the hallway, though. Hoping nothing went awry, I sneaked forward, slowly easing open, and sliding in between, the screen and frame, somehow managing not to make any noise. When I managed to ease the door shut, marking my descent into the house a success, a bit more stealth was utilized and before I knew it I was staring out at the debacle of Zexion and Mr. New Person between two dying potted plants like the good little eavesdropper I am. There had been a lull in the conversation. Then, just as I settled into place, things took off.

“I never meant to hurt you.” My eyes widened. Soap Opera material! The best kind to overhear! Jackpot! “I hate seeing you like this.”

But, oh, wasn't that boner making it difficult to appreciate the moment? “Hurt me? Hurt me?” Zexion looked just about ready to spring on the guy and slaughter him. Horribly. “Yes, because stealing my life's work and attempting to sell it to a big-name company on the East coast will only ever measure on an emotional level. You not only failed to see the outcome of your actions, but also managed to completely miss the part about me not caring half a shit about how you've been feeling the last few months. Everything bad that's happened to you since then has been all your fault. There's no blaming it on the universe, or God, or even luck. You screwed this up, and only you can take the blame.” Then again, Zexion never needed actions to get anger across.

“I realize this, and I've paid the price!” Ah. Soap Operas. Good ol' Soaps. “So there's no way you'll ever give us a chance again?” Wait- again? Oh-ho-ho! Blackmail! Zexion likes guys!

Except not. That would be really low. I may be stupid, but I'm not despicable. “Get out.”

“But, Zexion-”

“Get out.”

The man sputtered. “Can't we just-”

“Out!” Hunched and nursing watery eyes, the stranger left.

And to think there was someone stupider than me. Stupider. Huh. Is that even a word?

“You can come out, now.” Mother pheasant plucker...?! Zexion was staring somewhere along the far wall as I hesitantly rose from my hiding place. The man didn't even wait for an apology or an explanation as to why I was there. Instead, he did the last thing I expected in such a situation- he offered information. “It's alright- he was my last assistant.”

The world paused and seemed to consider this small offering. Assistant? The one who stole the plans for the machine and tried to sell them? That would make sense. Something like that would get Zexion in a lot of trouble, seeing as the source of our funds had a little habit of being, well, the U.S. Military. “Are you-”

“Lovers?” Zexion seemed to heave a mental sigh at this, and one hand sneaked into his forehead where some strands of hair had begun to free themselves from his ponytail. “We used to be.”

There was a lull. An oddly intimate, yet annoying break in speech that served to do nothing but annoy me. Cautiously, I circumnavigated myself into the living room to stand before the man. “I was going to say 'Gay' but I guess that kind of answers my question.”

A glare was sent my way. “Whatever. Just go jerk off into the toilet and get back to work. I'll be in later.” My face flushed a bright red at this. Zexion was a genius- he probably figured it out ages before hand. The ultimate blackmail, and he'd just thrown it in my face with what seemed to be without a second thought. Cowed, and with a reasonably deflated ego, I brushed past the man towards the bathroom. But as I left, before the door shut behind me, I could just barely hear the man grumble from the kitchen, “What on Earth could have him so riled up every morning?”

But when my hand went to nudge at my groin, reaching beyond the hem of my jeans, I found that my erection has deflated. Blackmail can do that to a guy. However, it also meant pain streaking through my balls all-

Ah. There we go. Pain. Dull, throbbing, absolute through my left nut and spreading to my right. Blue balls, my favorite sport.

I needed to get laid.

TBC


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wanted to relive a specific moment? Something that changed your life? A time when you were at your greatest? A moment when you fell the furthest? A day you don't remember, words you didn't hear, lessons you didn't learn? Yes. We all have them. It's human nature to want that which has already passed. It's been my life's work to recreate those memories, and only now have I accomplished this. However, as I worked my many hours to get the thing copyrighted and its technology in the right hands something happened that I couldn't plan for.

Have you ever wanted to relive a specific moment? Something that changed your life? A time when you were at your greatest? A moment when you fell the furthest? A day you don't remember, words you didn't hear, lessons you didn't learn? Yes. We all have them. It's human nature to want that which has already passed. It's been my life's work to recreate those memories, and only now have I accomplished this. However, as I worked my many hours to get the thing copyrighted and its technology in the right hands something happened that I couldn't plan for.

But before we get to that there are a few points of interests and a bit of background that I would like to impress upon you, the reader of this sick and twisted little story that has somehow become my life. For one, if you have ever thrown your shoes up on a power line in the out of the way semi-famous farming town of Walla Walla, Washington then there is a good chance that I have cut it from its acrobatic placement and incinerated it in a furnace for the purpose of powering my Machine of Time. If you loved those shoes, I apologize. Unless, of course, they were sneakers. Then I couldn't care less as those things deserved the premature, fiery, apocalyptic end in which I have so graciously bestowed upon them in place of global warming, arson, or God.

Now, if they were Chucks or combat boots I would like to profusely apologize in person and provide compensation. You had no doubt put them there in order to offset the aesthetically displeasing sneakers. However this is a public line, and it would not be wise to announce my contact information. Much less to what could possibly be a wide audience of sneaker-wearers. As such, you'll have to do without.

I digress, there is another point I would like to make. It is that my Machine of Time shall not be, under any circumstances, referred to as a “Time Machine.” I get enough of that from my assistant, thank you very much. His name is Demyx. He's not the brightest crayon in the box, and it can be determined that the man is a few pennies short of a dime, if you catch my drift. In fact, I call him Demyx the Moron in my head sometimes. The only reason he's on the team- consisting entirely of the two of us- is that I don't have to repeat anything to him. Except for the obvious, “It's not a Time Machine,” bit. Fact remains, he easily does the work of five assistants by writing my notes for me, working a wide variety of welding tools, and drawing up diagrams in minutes that would usually keep me busy for weeks.

Did I mention he had a fantastic memory? No? Well, don't tell him that. The less he knows- about anything- the less he can bastardize it with one of his stereotypes. It's part of the reason I pay him piss. (Don't tell him he's underpaid if you know what's good for you.)

But let's rewind. I'm Dr. Zexion Corrazza. My colleagues call me Dr. Corrazza, accordingly, aside from Demyx. He just calls me Sir. Sometimes I think he does it just to piss me off, because on a primal level it really, really does. Either way, the fact is that we've been sort-of friends since I first caught him masturbating in the boy's bathroom in High School. (I fear he's still holding that against me. I was laughing, after all.)

No matter, the man is an idiot. In retrospect I could have said that in as many words, but mental monologues really are all that keep you going when you're repairing a battery. That's what I'm doing right now. Repairing a battery. Brainless business, if you ask me. I'd have Demyx do it, but he'd probably melt the desk. With sodium. He'd manage it somehow. No doubt with an erection. Then he'd ask for a bathroom break.

Is it too much to ask for him to keep it in his pants?

Let's rewind again, though, because there is one final detail about myself that must be known before we continue this little tale. Though it is not widely accepted, nor is it appreciated or tolerated in the modern day, I- a man- enjoy physical pleasures outside of marriage with other people who are not married. Now, see, you wouldn't think that's so bad. But here's the clincher.

The people I approach, that I am attracted to, share a common trait with myself. They are male.

My name is Zexion Corrazza and I am a Homosexual.

Now, if you're offended, highly religious, or feeling any bit of disgust right now, please read on. I promise you that it has little to nothing to do with my everyday life, seeing as I am single. That means I am without another man, with a penis mind you, to appreciate the joys of aforementioned out-of-marriage physical pleasures. (Because the closest place that allows gay marriage at the moment is Canada.)

Then again, this entry is highlighting things that usually do not occur in my daily life so you might actually want to leave. Never come back and all that jazz.

So, I'm repairing a battery. There's a good chance you have never performed such an act, and thus have no idea of what the inside of a battery looks like, so I'm going to spare you that bit. And the bit I'm fixing. No need to explain something you won't be able to follow. If you're truly curious as to the procedure of making a battery look it up yourself. I'm not an encyclopedia. But I will tell you this; the battery I was working on was roughly the size of my head.

“Sir.” For a few seconds I ignored the sound, if only to get to a safer part of the battery-repair process. “Sir?” Again, noise. Annoying. I continued with the work. “Sir, you have a phone call.”

“It doesn't matter to me if you need to pass off a phone or herpes- it can wait a few precious seconds. Now, if you interrupt me again you're cleaning up the acid.”

“But it's the Dean.”

I then traded my pliers for the cordless phone, much to Demyx's surprise. “Bob's funeral supply; you stab 'em we slab 'em. How may I help you?” I mentally bet twenty bucks that the call was about the staff party.

On the other end a man laughed. “ _Hello Dr. Corazza_.”

“Dean Atkin-Downes. May I ask the nature of your call?” There was a little part of me that wanted to demand why he was calling so late.

“ _Well_ ,” he began, trailing off momentarily for effect. “ _Mr. Gallager has yet to receive a positive or negative as to your attendance of the upcoming social gathering_.”

“So the staff party.”

“ _What was that_?”

“Nothing. Please continue.”

On the other line Mr. Atkin-Downes scoffed. “ _But you see, Mr. Corazza, the point has been made. A positive or negative response has to be given._ ”

I sighed. “Sir, I'm not-”

“ _Great_!” he exclaimed suddenly. “ _It's on the ninth. We'll pick you up at six._ ”

“But-” Then he had the gall to hang up.

That pretentious, under qualified, coddled old coot hung up on me! On _me_! The person garnering a majority of the research funds, students, government grants, and in a roundabout way the _pay checks_ for that godforsaken university! _He hung up on me_!

“Umm...”

“What, Demyx?” 'Moron,' I added mentally.

“Do you want your pliers back?”

…

Four days later, not too long before the staff party, my phone went off around three in the morning. The street lights were filtering in through the window, laid across my eyes in a way that burned my retinas. It had been keeping me up all night. There was no sleeping with the nonexistent bustle of a dessert farming town. Nothing happened in Walla Walla. Ever. The silence was debilitating.

I scrambled about in the quiet of it all. My eyes screamed, and my body demanded rest. But all the same, I wasn't tired enough to fall asleep. Eventually my hands, groping around in the illuminated shadows, found the small buzzing electronic and pressed it to my ear. “You know,” I grumbled, “it's far too early in the morning for anything to exist.”

“ _How about a copyright_?” a voice on the other end of the line responded.

Blinking through the night haze, I stood up straight and made my way towards the kitchen. There was no sleeping after this. “It went through?”

“ _That's right. Everything will be final in about six weeks, though. No more thieving assistants. No more hounding government associates- just you and the machine all day_.” One could almost hear the woman's grin. “ _And, most importantly, the FBI can't take credit_.”

A heavy sigh fought from my through, but I held it back. “Thank you, Larxene. It wouldn't have gotten through so quickly without your help.”

“ _One problem, though_ ,” the woman informed me, no doubt examining her nails with the care she put into the words. “ _It needs a name. 'Machine of Time' isn't going to work. Stockholders won't invest. Needs to be family friendly. 'MT 2000' is a bit misleading, too._ ”

A short pause followed. A title that would sell? I hadn't really thought of one before. But it made sense for there to be one. The nickname I had given it wouldn't roll with the current economy. It could be seen as a last ditch effort to relive one's life. “When do you need the title by?”

She sighed. “ _The end of the week, at the latest_.”

Glancing to the calender by the cutting board, I stepped over to correct the date. It wasn't January any more, anyway. “Three days, then. I'll have it to you by tomorrow.”

“ _Government goons are always suspicious. The sooner we get this done the better_.”

“Later today, then. Just hold on.” My hands worked to start a pot of coffee.

“ _Zexion_ ,” the woman hissed in a voice that was beyond terrifying. “ _If you don't get that name to me in the next hour I won't have time to get it in_.”

“So much for the end of the week.”

“ _That's the latest we can get the paperwork in. I'm giving you an hour_.”

A swear fought itself from me, and Larxene's raised eyebrow was nearly tangible. “I'm going to have to call you back, okay?”

She heaved a heavy sigh. “ _Whatever._ ”

Almost as if on instinct, the call was swiftly ended and I was dialing Demyx's number. There was a series of clicks, but aside from that no noise was made as the ringing came to an end. It occurred to me that he could have hung up. However, Demyx wasn't the type to do that, even if it was in the ungodly early hours of the morning. It was true, I was being rude for calling so late. Especially during the time when nothing deserved to exist. But between Demyx and Larxene I would much rather anger the man. His wrath was tolerable- it helped that he wasn't a woman.

It wouldn't surprise me if Larxene had been the inspiration for the phrase, “A woman scorned is a dangerous thing.” Obviously whoever had coined the expression was a brilliant individual. Either that or they had somehow met the fear inspiring blonde.

As this thought was contemplated silence reigned. Before long I spoke, hesitant should I be talking to an empty line. “Demyx?”

“ _Yes?_ ” the man managed through a heavy impairment. My call had woken him.

This inspired a small smirk. “I would like to inquire as to the possibility that you might have a name to present for the Machine of Time.”

“ _If you want to why don't you just inquire away?_ ” Snark. Sarcasm. It was not what anyone would expect of Demyx. Such things require intelligence and humor. The man, to my knowledge, had never displayed any form of either in the entirety of our acquaintanceship, aside from idle comments that, to him, made no sense. It seemed to me that the man was smarter the less aware of anything he was. Nevertheless, it was alarming to find that Demyx had a dry sense of humor. He had potential yet.

This thought was even more alarming. “Do you have a name for the Machine of Time that I could possibly use?”

“ _What's wrong with the 'Machine of Time?'_ ”

“It's not 'catchy' or 'family friendly.'”

“ _Ah. Gotcha. How about Tim?_ ”

Any points Demyx had previously managed to gear towards increasing his level of intelligence promptly died horrible deaths. “Come again?”

He yawned. “ _Tim. You know- 'Ti' from 'Time' and 'M' from 'Machine.'_ ”

“Tim.”

“ _Yeah._ ”

My fingers reached up to the bridge of my nose, pinching it to offset my sudden headache. “It's not a Time Machine, Demyx, it's a-”

“ _Machine of Time. Right, right. However, that's not going to roll, right? So just call it a Time Machine!_ ”

I swear, someday I'm going to kill that brat. Brat in a mental sense, not a physical. He is older than me, after all.

So I hung up, called Larxene, and the machine was labeled “Tim.”

Now, I contemplate a great many things between calculations and classes in the odd hours of the day or night. Some would think they would be things that bordered on mathematical genius. This was not the case. Instead I considered things like, “How did polar bears wind up on the North Pole?” and “Why are pillows so fluffy?” It just so happens that my thoughts are not always as structured as many seem to think. Just because I am a genius does not mean I am a brilliant, above average individual at all times. In fact, there are quite a few moments I can think of at this very moment in which I portrayed a certain level of stupidity.

For example, shortly after I had phoned Larxene and hung up I had sat around drinking coffee demanding from my brain just what type of person Demyx was, all the while thoughtfully nibbling on a nail. It had already been established that he was honest. Uncommonly nice. Oddly submissive. Attractive. Good with people- to an extent. Really, the only other kind of being that could fit this description was some kind of exotic, foreign animal. Like a giraffe.

“He certainly is tall enough to be a giraffe,” I whispered to myself, comparing our heights but purposely ignoring the fact that my five foot three stature was not to be considered impressive nor average. “Giraffes have orthostatic hair as well,” the train of thought continued. “And since Elephants never forget maybe Giraffes can't either.” At the time such thoughts appeared perfectly sane, even though Giraffe's hair doesn't actually stand up.

The thought was allowed to stew, taking some kind of horrible form in my head that was akin to a law. However, instead of, “Look both ways before crossing the street,” it was, “Demyx is a Giraffe.” And so, a few scants hours later I found myself admiring his neck when he showed up for work.

“Good Morning, sir,” the moron greeted me. He looked tired. My doing, no doubt. However, my attention was elsewhere, observing the curve and distance from his collarbone to where it met his head.

It was rather long.

Demyx blinked. “Do I have something on my neck, sir?” he asked, swiping at his neck with one hand, then the other.

I turned to the computer. “Just get in the pod.”

…

One tries to avoid thinking about work whenever possible, it seems. I myself rarely allow a short overview of the day's work while 'relaxing' at home. There wasn't much to consider. Had I mentally scarred anyone? Did anyone seem to be struggling? No and no. That was the end of it. No student ever hit me as special; no one asked me questions after class. Did I come off as pretentious or scary? Who knew?

Long story short, students didn't bother me. That was all there was to say. End of the line; nothing else to explore.

I thought wrong.

“Mr. Corazza, I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.” It was at the end of class. Most of the students had already vacated, and there wouldn't be another session for an hour. It as my prep period- the perfect chance for a student to approach me. The little fuckers.

Fixing the student with a bland expression of mild disinterest, I paused in the rearranging of my desk. “What seems to be the problem, Ms. Stoner?”

She winced. “Just call me Xion, please.”

“That would be outside the professional capacity.”

“Ah- yes. I know. Anyway, I just...” She trailed off, obviously weighing the importance of her next words. “I'd like to know if you were going to be transferring to a larger University with the new semester coming up.”

Screwing up my eyebrows, I fixed her with a quizzical look. For some unknown reason, she flinched. “What makes you ask?”

“I just- your desk-”

“What about it?”

Xion took a deep breath. “Well, you're always reorganizing it, you don't have any pictures, and there aren't any charts hung around the room.”

“That may be due to my lack of family or willingness to provide unnecessary visual aids that will only detract from the school setting.”

“Right,” she halfheartedly agreed.. “See, there have been these rumors that the University of Notre Dame has sent you an invitation to join their staff.”

My next words came in wave of word-vomit designed to confuse anyone but myself. “That would imply that my person has received a missive from said illustrious institution and have shared the information with others in form of conversation. I would not share such things, however, as it is a personal employment matter. As things stand, I assure you that I would switch to such a school in an instant without hesitation or a single second thought.”

Xion blinked. “So you'll be teaching at Notre Dame?”

“No.”

“But you just said you'd switch-”

“They haven't invited me,” I simplified.

“Yes they have!” she blurted.

I fixed her with a look. “You state this quite confidently, though you claim the invitation to be a rumor.” She shifted from foot to foot. “Explain.”

“Does it matter where I get my information?”

“On thesis papers and when it has to do with my career, yes.”

She hesitated once more. Glancing around the room to make sure no one was there, she leaned in a whispered, “Luxord Atkin-Downes.”

I blinked, skepticism marring my face. “The Dean?” I scoffed. “And you are his what? Cousin? Niece? Sister in-law?”

“We're- um...” Xion coughed into one of her hands. “We're kind of dating.” A pregnant moment followed, in which she was faced with a look of humor.

“You could have just walked away, you know,” I mused. “Left me wondering. I couldn't have stopped you, and you've already made your point. What do you get out of this?”

She shook her head. “It's just...” Taking a moment for herself, Xion clenched her eyes shut. “I want you to stay here.” My eyebrows rose as she opened her eyes, only to glare at the floor as her face took flame. “You're my favorite teacher. Please don't leave!”

“You're leaving?” Two sets of eyes raced over to the door, where Demyx stood holding a stack of papers.

“Hi, Demyx!” Xion greeted with a nervous smile. Demyx responded with a grin of his own and a wave. “How long have you been listening?”

He shrugged. “Only the last bit. Where is Mr. Corazza going?”

“He might be switching to the University of-” Xion began to supply.

“Well, I would-” I mused, cutting the girl off, “ _if_ such an invitation were to be sent to me. I'm sorry, but rumors of correspondence with the Dean don't mean anything without proof.”

Demyx glanced between the two of us, taking stock of what we had said and weighing them in his head. “Okay. Right. Well, here are the photocopies you wanted!”

…

Demyx was insufferable.

Not only had the man appeared late to work but he had the gall to sing as he wrote notes.

And there were a lot of notes.

Nearly three hours into the man's “solo” I felt like killing him. I didn't even want to be creative about it. I just wanted the blond man quiet, and impaling him with some nearby instrument usually used for construction- such as a power drill- would surely do the job quickly enough.

Usually I would not take offense to something as trivial as humming. Well, I would, but not to such a degree. See, that morning had been terrible. For one, that morning I just so happened to run out of creamer. And seeing as I am what many would term a “Coffee Snob” this is just one of many layers of Hell. Not to mention we began work at six in the morning and no one deserves to be that happy at such a cursed hour. Not even Demyx the Moron.

To be honest, there was even an entire hour in which I desperately begged whatever deity existed out there to either smite him where he hummed or afflict him with an erection so that I would be free of his noise for at least ten minutes- maybe longer considering his mental state after such an event. It didn't even make sense! Vocal chords could only safely handle approximately three hours of excessive use- much like his incessant humming- a day, so how could this man go on for hours on end?

Much to the awe of my future self at my own incredible stamina, it wasn't until Noon, over some coffee in the sitting room, that I snapped. “Just what on Earth could have you this elated first thing in the morning?”

I received a grin for my troubles, along with a, “Nothin'.” It wasn't the lack of a proper response that most irked me about his reply, but the way he held out the “o” like a five year old who had a secret they desperately wanted to share. Surely the best way to disappoint him was not to ask.

Or I could be direct and ruin his mood that way. “Tell me now before I strangle you with a plastic shopping bag.” Demyx stared at me for a bit after I said this.

“You're unusually straightforward today, sir.”

“You're unusually annoying. Answer the question.”

The blond seemed to weigh his options, his blue-green eyes racing around the room, settling on something before moving on to something else. After a good few seconds of this, I crossed my arms. I could only hope to look intimidating, because I was anything but. I wouldn't _really_ hurt him- just threaten his job and everything else I had access to in his life. And even then, I wouldn't _actually_ fire him or drop his from my class. That would just be childish. And strangling him with a plastic bag? No; my threats were always pretty empty. With every threat I made there was a silent accompanying hope that maybe, just maybe, the other person was cliché enough, stupid enough, to fall for the facade of little ol' disgruntled Zexion.

It only worked on Demyx.

Eventually he turned his eyes back to me before blushing and turning his gaze to the floor. “I had a date last night.”

My eyebrows rose. “Now this _is_ a development!” Demyx bristled.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” I mused, admiring my chipped, chewed, and all-around abused nails with mild disinterest. Demyx had a date, huh? Strange. “Who was it? A girl from class?”

He shook his head. “No, no- they're all too young for me anyway.” Good. If he had fraternized with one of the girls from my class I would have felt obligated to scold him- most of them were eighteen. “She's an editor for a local farming magazine, actually.”

“How old?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Does she have a thing for idiots or something?” I chuckled mentally, trying to imagine the type of woman that would date Demyx. Bleach blonde, no doubt. Pencil thin with little to no clothes on her body and reeking of cigarettes. Probably lived her life according to the Vegas code, only dating tall men with diminished IQs. The image was entirely far too amusing, and I took pause at this. Demyx dating a tramp?

No. Even Demyx wouldn't date a tramp.

When the mental image faded I was left with a hollow feeling in my chest. The kind you get after making fun of someone you didn't know. In all honesty I felt like a dick. She was probably a very nice girl with a cute little accent and dimples. Her name could be foreign and sweet on the tongue. Pretty, nice, smart; the whole nine yards. And just like that jealousy began to bud somewhere in the pit of my stomach, because I knew that was the kind of girl that would fall for Demyx. The kind that grew up next door and remained in your life forever, 'til death do you part.

And it made his next words so much more biting, because during my entire thought process- from rise to fall- he had been giving me a long look. One that read of disgust and disappointment. Over the period of a night he had changed, and I had missed it. Maybe it hadn't even been a night. Maybe he had been growing up for a long time and I just failed to notice.

When he opened his mouth the words weren't in defense. They didn't have to be. “You know what? Fuck you.” Maybe his response was a bit out there. Disproportionate. But I had brought it upon myself.

After a few seconds I managed a small, “I'm sorry.”

“I don't want to hear it,” he hissed, turning back to the notes. The pencil raced across the page, and I almost told him to slow down in case he made any mistakes. But that would be a lost cause. Demyx didn't make mistakes; that was my jurisdiction.

“Demyx, I...” Trailing off, I found myself with nothing to say.

He signed. “You know what? Sometimes I wonder if you're even human.” I glanced over to the blond man, confusion written on my face. “I mean, of course you're human. You've got oppose-able thumbs and everything. It's just that sometimes you make comments like that. Ones that scream, 'I am a self-important genius who happens to be an asshole,' but no one cares! That's the thing- everyone who takes your class loves you! I wouldn't be surprised if one of the girls- like Xion Stoner- has a secret crush on you or something.”

I scoffed. “Xion Stoner does _not_ have a secret crush on me.” She likes them blond, British, and a good twenty years older than her.

“Have you seen the way she looks at you? Of course she does!”

“She doesn't.”

“And how would you know? Did she tell you today or something, which would make it an open crush? You would pick at a detail like-”

Heaving a sigh, I interrupted the man with, “She doesn't like me.” When the blond quieted I continued, nearly on the brink of laughter. “I am in her confidence about a matter that makes such a thing quite impossible.”

“But if she did, would you date her?”

Then I really did laugh. “Of course not!”

Demyx then scoffed, and I realized that what tension had been in the room before his little- inaccurate- observation had left. “Right- so you're saying if Xion came up to you and asked you on a date you would say no?”

“Without hesitation and with as few words as possible.”

“You're a dick.”

“No, I just take them.” A lengthy, very awkward pause followed this comment. Turning away from the blond man, who was openly gaping, my fingers sought to straighten a stack of papers on my desk. The silence was heavy, seeming to weigh down everything in the room. Even the papers seemed to have been made from sheets of iron. “I assumed you knew.”

“Uh...” He cleared his throat. “No. I- I didn't know. Have you...” He paused. “Have you ever thought of _me_ like-”

“Huh? Oh- no. No- that would be entirely unprofessional of me.” The question took me entirely by surprise, and more than anything I wanted to turn it back on him.

“Zexion?”

I internally flinched. Could he tell I was lying? “Yes?”

“We've known each other since High School.”

“And?”

He heaved a long sigh. “ _And_ you were a healthy teenage boy who- you know- happened to be-”

“Demyx?”

“Yeah?”

“You're my best friend.” We both laughed at this. He laughed because there was no way that was possible. I laughed because I'd only then realized it. “But I am sorry. I'm sure she's a great girl.”

The man grinned. “Yeah- she sure is something.” And just like that, all was forgiven.

…

Saturday morning I went out to get my built-up mail. Seriously; who had time for mail these days? That's right; no one. It was an archaic invention that needed to be done entirely through e-mail. Although it did come in handy for sending things like DVDs and Christmas Sweaters, usually you had warning for things like that. Like, you know, ordering a DVD online. But aside from such events, the postal service was a cruel institution enforced on the human race. What once was a blessing was rendered useless by the internet, and therefore made no sense. Like many before me I remember a day before internet and cell phones.

They were such dark, dark days.

Moving right along, I had gotten mail in the last few days. Lots of it. This is strange since my bills were all paid online, and automatically at that. First there was a letter from my cousin, Marluxua. He wants to get into contact. My guess is that he wants to gloat about his shiny new seat of power in Microsoft. The bastard. Second came a missive from my lawyer, who was running away with my wife.

I joke, I joke. She just told me to send her a copy of my blueprints in the return envelope. You may recall one Larxene-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Last-Named. (It's a little nickname I got going for her. Long story short, she's a very open drunk who happens to have a thing for Moldy Voldy from none other than Harry Potter.) Third was, oddly enough, another letter from Larxene informing me that she checked her e-mail and found the blueprints and was working on a patent for each individual piece of the Machine of Time. You know- just to be safe.

Fourth was an invitation from the University of Notre Dame requesting that I join their staff.

I quickly located a box. With only two weeks left in the year there was no reason to stall.

…

Later that day we were going to do a long term test with the machine, with three hours planned instead of the usual ten minute span. Every precaution had been taken. Machines were dragged out into the open to monitor the cerebral cortex. They would monitor for change and possible damage. The moment anything flickered the memory would be aborted.

“And you're not going to look at the screen?” Demyx asked.

Heaving a tired sigh, I fixed the older man with a look. “No, Demyx. I am not going to look at the screen. The last thing I need is to see you jerking off in some bathroom stall.”

“I didn't choose _that_ memory, you-”

“As the saying goes, 'save it for Oprah.' Stop pitching your infantile fit and get in there.”

After much coaxing, Demyx climbed into the Machine of Time, settling into the gaudy pillow his girlfriend had donated for her boyfriend's “unfortunate backside.” I had spared it a glance on the way in, but I couldn't help but disagree. He may be a giraffe, but the man had anything but an unfortunate backside. Especially in those jeans.

When he was comfortably seated- there was a lot to be said about shuffling- I set the machine to run, and turned the computer monitor away from my station.

It was going to be a long three hours.

“ _Don't worry- you look fine._ ” The words caught me on edge. Had I left the speakers on? Of course I did. That hadn't been on the list of things to do. Pressing the button in on the right speaker, my eyes glued themselves to the brain monitor. No change.

In the following half hour there proceeded to be no change.

Another half hour. Nothing new.

I got a soda. This in retrospect was a terrible idea, as it is far from professional to leave one's station during a monitoring session to watch for the possible formation of protein tears. However, I have expressed before that I am not always the most brilliant of people, and I will again impress this upon you at this point. Besides, when I came back nothing had changed.

Some time into the third half-hour I got curious. The desire started as a seed, and slowly grew into something larger and far more imposing. Eventually it took over my entire thought process and threatened to block out my monitoring status.

What was Demyx reliving?

Without acknowledging just what I was doing, my hands shot out, turning the monitor and pressing the button on the speakers for sound.

It was a date.

A nice restaurant that I recognized. The staff had gone there for the party. Across from him sat a pretty girl. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, petite, soft features, and pale skin. She was quite a sight to behold.

_“How's your chicken?” Demyx asked, glancing from the woman's plate, then back to her face._

_“Fantastic, thank you,” she replied, eagerly sharing a grin. She took another bite from the dish before fixing him with a look. “Are you enjoying your pasta?”_

_“Very much,” he answered. It all seemed very natural, but something about it seemed strained. Then subtitles appeared. 'If only Zexion was half as considerate as Naminé._

One could say that I visibly flinched. It was a low blow- one I hadn't expected. Had he been thinking of me all evening? Comparing me to this beautiful woman? Is that why Demyx didn't want to me look?

Well if he didn't want me to look then I wouldn't look.

The monitor was swiftly turned off and the speakers muted. My eyes were once again turned to the machines off to my right, checking, double checking, and triple checking all of the older man's brain functions. I wouldn't need the computer monitor at this point. Everything was going perfectly.

Suddenly, a single bar shot up above the rest of the graph, startling me from my seat with a high pitched series of beeps. I shot to my feet, looking over them carefully. What was going on? Were lesions forming? Was his cerebrum under too much stress? My fingers flew to the computer, but I didn't know what to do with a blank screen.

The monitor took a while to boot up, and I was losing valuable time. The machines weren't telling me what was going on, and I wasn't a neurosurgeon. Scientist? Yes. Surgeon? Not so much.

Eventually I was faced with an empty player. The memory had stopped itself. I commanded the program to abort. Nothing happened. The program didn't close, there was no billowing smoke from the machine- nothing. I commanded it to abort again, and this time it responded. The beeping hadn't stopped. I raced over to the Machine of Time, harshly yanking the door open. There sat Demyx, unchanged since I last saw him.

“Demyx,” I hissed. He looked up at me with his eyes squinted, peering beneath his lashes as if to protect himself from some harsh light. The man groaned. Tugging a small flashlight from my pocket, I reached forward and tugged one of his drooping lids open, checking for light sensitivity. The pupils on both sides reacted accordingly. “Demyx, are you okay?”

“Fine,” he moaned.

I scoffed. “Perfectly fine, or 'just shut up' fine?” He rolled his eyes, which was a plus. Holding up a hand, I asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Five.”

“No, four. The thumb isn't a finger.” Offering the man my hand, I pulled him out of the pod, only for him to collapse onto me. He heaved a heavy sigh as I tried to accommodate his weight. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm _fine_ , jeez.” Lifting himself off my shoulder, the man straightened. He fixed me with a look of confusion, one that was both expected and terrifying. “Who are you, anyway?”

That was the moment my world froze.

Demyx, staring down at me, utterly clueless. Me, staring up at him with an expression that even now I can't begin to fathom. This seemed to continue on forever, a pocket in time that repeated itself the moment it ended. He wouldn't joke about something like this, would he?

Instead of answering the man's terrifying question, I raced to the monitoring system. It had been beeping for so long, it seemed. Fifteen seconds can mean the world to the human brain, and it had taken that long for me to shut down the program.

“Hey-” Demyx began. “What- Oh God- sir I didn't know.”

The pocket in time began to turn itself inside out as the implications of his words seemed to sink in. Slowly, I turned to face him. “What,” I hissed, “did you say?”

“I-” His voice cut out, and he cleared his throat. “I'm sorry- I thought it had been three hours. It never occurred to me that something had gone wrong. I'm-”

“Sorry?” Fury built in me. Demyx visibly swallowed, bright green eyes staring down at me in what could only be fear. “You're _sorry_?” I paced towards him.

“Sir-” Without warning, even to myself, my hand flew forward and smacked the blond right across the face. He stood there for a moment, too shocked to move.

Words were forming without my bidding, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. “You're in there for an hour and a half, everything seems to be going fine. But then alarms are sounding and when I check the screen it's _black_! Can you comprehend just how _terrifying_ that is?” He looked properly ashamed at this point, but there was no stopping me. “Then you come out, all loopy and weak, and ask who I am!” Insecure in my fury, I tried to keep from yelling. “We've known each other since High School, you little shit!”

“But, Zexion, I thought-”

“Don't you 'but Zexion' me! Get out!” I was holding back tears at that point, and I had no idea why. He stared at me uselessly, seeming to take in just what was happening. “Get out right now!” Then the green-eyed man did the only thing he could do. He ran. And only after he was long gone, and the sounds of his truck starting up and driving away into the distance, did I allow the tears to fall.

That was when I realized that I was in love with Demyx.

…

“I don't want to end things like this.” I glanced up, surprised.

Demyx had been silent during the entire drive to Oysterville. I don't know what compelled me to come back here. The exact spot where I first set off to look into cheap locations for tidal power- Willappa Bay. Maybe it was the view. Maybe it was the lack of people. Maybe it was the fact that I could use it as an excuse to spend several hours with the male without having to speak to him. “Like what?”

“Tense. Angry. Disorienting.”

“How is this disorienting?”

“I don't know- I just wanted to use a big word.” A plain lie. He was confused. Something to do with me, as always.

This Demyx was different from the one I knew. This Demyx spoke his mind and didn't bow to my insults. It was an odd change. “We're not going to be here for very long. I just need to take a few water samples.” I actually didn't. However, I had a lot of money just sitting around in my budget with nowhere to go and in three days I'd be at the University of Notre Dame. No more Walla Walla. No more sneaker-powered Time Machines. No more Demyx. “Go back to the car. I'll be right there.” Taking a beaker from my pocket, I lowered it into the water, careful not to get my fingers wet. He hesitated for a bit; that much was obvious. But when the squelching of Demyx's feet up the muddy hill was plain to my ears it was one of the most depressing things I'd ever heard.

I stood, tugging a napkin from my pocket wipe the side of the beaker before capping it. My knee was covered in mud, and it was just beginning to rain. The first few drops fell not far from me, pattering against some leaves. Retreating to the car, I motioned with my hand for Demyx to get in. The rest of the trip was spent in silence.

…

Three days left. I had three days to pack, move, and never see that town ever again.

They passed quickly, with far too many interludes with teachers and students and not enough spent alone away from the crowd. When I finally saw Demyx he was talking with the woman- Naminé. It was strange, seeing them together. They looked good. Matched, even. It was a slap in the face, but I couldn't argue with it.

After those three days I was packed and gone. Moved into a new apartment and prepping for a year with better funding and more students.

I didn't see Demyx for another six years.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine you had a friend in High School. This friend wasn't really a friend- more like someone you put up with for the sake of keeping them quiet about how they caught you masturbating in the little boys' room. Now, pretend this friend seriously turned you on. So, this friend- let's call him “Mr. Brain”- is really smart. He's the smartest guy you've ever known and you go from shoving him down a toilet every Wednesday to desperately wishing to go down on him once in your life. But Mr. Brain doesn't seem to care- or notice- that you're attracted to him, which is great because it's the 80's and people aren't very accepting of guys liking other guys. This leads to some stupid decisions, including giving Mr. Brain your home address and phone number.

Imagine you had a friend in High School. This friend wasn't really a friend- more like someone you put up with for the sake of keeping them quiet about how they caught you masturbating in the little boys' room. Now, pretend this friend seriously turned you on. So, this friend- let's call him “Mr. Brain”- is really smart. He's the smartest guy you've ever known and you go from shoving him down a toilet every Wednesday to desperately wishing to go down on him once in your life. But Mr. Brain doesn't seem to care- or notice- that you're attracted to him, which is great because it's the 80's and people aren't very accepting of guys liking other guys. This leads to some stupid decisions, including giving Mr. Brain your home address and phone number.

Moving on, Mr. Brain and you lose contact after High School. Suddenly in college he's your teacher and you've become his assistant. Said teacher is building a Time Machine- and “Nerd” turns you on. In the long run nothing happens, even after you find out that both of your are into guys. Mr. Brain doesn't seem interested, so you start going out with a girl that brings you out of your shell. It doesn't last long, but she makes you see things. After that, he's not your teacher any more and you lose contact.

Tell me: what are the chances?

It's been six years. Six long years of nothing between you- no letters, no phone calls. Nothing. This is my situation. And there Zexion was, sitting on the other end of the screen, sipping from a glass of water as the hostess fired question after question. “What first inspired you to take part in the neurological sciences?” What were the chances that both Zexion and myself would be booked for the same talk show?

It seemed like a billion to one.

Finishing his sip of water with an amiable nod, Zexion replied with, “Nothing really.” His voice was just as I remembered it, as was his face and body. Lithe, but not too much so, with dark blue eyes and a shock of blue hair- dyed, of course- falling in a sheet over the right side of his face. Setting the glass down carefully, the man cleared his throat. “I always found memories fascinating, and that was the initial goal of the invention. To reawaken images the brain had locked away. For some that isn't necessary, taking into account Eidetic memories, but for others this is something difficult. They need a bit more of a boost. I first got the idea during English class in the second grade when I had what many would call a 'brain fart.'” The audience laughed at this.

“So I take it you were a straight A student?” she inquired. Her lashes, either heavy with mascara or false, lowered just a touch in flirting.

Zexion inclined his head in agreement, my eyes tracking every iota of movement. To say I was nervous would be an understatement. “Of course.”

“And you've been a teacher now for seven years. Is this correct?”

“Yes, it is.” It was a surprise to hear this, more than anything. He never seemed to enjoy class.

“So, now that your invention has produced hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue do you intend to retire and live off the money? Or do you have another invention up your sleeve?”

Leaning forward for another drink of water, he sighed. “I'm afraid not. _Tim_ was the product of nearly twenty years of work, and if I were to ever produce any other projects I would require an assistant. In the meantime, I think I'll keep teaching.”

A frown of confusion marred the woman's face. “But you must have hundreds of students flinging themselves at your for the chance of being your assistant.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't specific enough. The particular assistant I refer to has an Eidetic memory.”

She laughed. “I guess that does make quite the difference!”

He grinned in reply. “Yes, it does.”

To hear myself mentioned so casually was a bit of a shock, and I was only able to half-listen to the rest of the interview before they went to commercial. It was all a (crystal-clear) blur of, “Did you run into any problems?” and “Seventy percent of the proceeds go to charity.” There were a few comments about his hair, and how Madonna was awesome. Then an intern ran up to me, waving a two-way radio and mouthing for me to get into place. I nodded in reply and stepped up to the studio door, waiting for the commercial break to introduced, end, and for the woman to call me in.

Not much later, out of the corner of my eye there was a flash of blue. I resisted the urge to turn and confront the man I knew it belonged to. The brief glimpse was all I needed. His makeup had ben hastily wiped away, and his skin was even paler than usual. It's pallor was a bit disturbing, to be completely honest. Even during long weeks of nothing but working in the shop (also known as Spring Break) he'd never gotten that white. The dark bruises under his eyes were familiar after so long in my line of business, as were his nicotine-stained fingertips. He'd started smoking, it seemed.

Then they were calling me in, and I opened the door to face a series of bright lights and a broad audience that immediately broke into a wall of applause and cat-calls. (Someone in the back row was tapping to the theme they were playing for my intro, though, which was a bit of a relief.) As I walked across the stage to the couch the woman shot from her seat in greeting. “Thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to visit us, Mr. Myde!” she bubbled over the crowd. It hadn't even been a second and already the woman was a pile of mush.

“Thanks so much for having me,” I replied with a grin. It seemed that I had missed my chance to have a chat with Zexion.

“Mr. Myde-”

“Just Myde, please.”

Beneath her makeup, she blushed. “Well, Myde, I'd just like to say right now that I love your movies! Whether you're acting or directing, it's quite the experience either way.”

“That's quite the complement, thank you.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I hear that you began theater study five years ago. Is this true?”

I nodded. “That's right.”

“To have come so far in such a short period of time- that's quite impressive.”

Laughing, I shrugged. “A bit later than most, though. I'm thirty-two already. That's enough to disillusion a good quantity of America.”

“Oh, I don't know about that- right everyone?” she asked, turning to the audience. Much to my mortification, a series of pre-teen squeals originated from six very young looking audience members. (All with bleach-blonde hair.) Hiding my disgust behind a poorly constructed smile, I waved to them. This didn't seem to help. In fact, one went as far as to hold up a sign reading, “ _Marry Me, Myde!_ ” The look was completed by lots of bright red hearts and designer clothes that were just a bit too big. On all of them.

Least to say, I was just a bit disturbed.

“They don't sound very disillusioned,” the woman laughed. “Now, let's get down to business. We took a few questions from the audience before this.” Selecting a list from the table between us, the woman grinned. “First of all, are you single?”

I laughed. They would ask for something like that. “Yes, I am.”

She grinned. “Second, there have been rumors of you and one Ms. Stoner being in an involved relationship in the past few months. Do these have any legitimate sources?”

“ _Mrs. Atkin-Downes_ \- as she is to be referred to as of last week- and I have never entertained the idea of being more than friends, Ma'am. We're just great College buddies. Oh-” I paused, then turned to the nearest camera, giving it two thumbs-up. “Congrats on the marriage, Xion!” The woman laughed. “I hope that was okay.”

“That was great,” she replied, playing with the card in her hands. “Now, back onto the questions. Our final question asks whether or not you and Mr. Corazza have ever come into contact. According to records you took one of his College courses.”

I hesitated. There was only so much information I could reveal without lying, but only so much truth I could share before it because intrusive. “We actually went to High School together,” I admitted instead, redirecting the topic.

“Isn't that interesting!” the woman gushed. “Who would have thought it! Were you good friends?”

“Tentatively,” I admitted. “Until a little while ago I was convinced he held every inch of my life story for ransom. That man's timing is so good it's occult.”

She leaned in, surprised. “What convinced you otherwise?”

I shrugged. “He's not that kind of man,” was the reply. Simple. Not too revealing. It was a good answer, if I may say so myself.

We continued to trade words back and forth, but eventually we came to a commercial break. (Never before had I been so eager to flee the stage.) That woman had managed to sum up my career in very few sentences, somehow going into detail about everything and nothing. To be frank it was the most disturbing thing I'd ever sat through.

…

I was removing makeup when a few tentative knocks sounded through the room. Startled, my gaze raced to the door. I'd been asked to wait until after the show for the lunch, but filming couldn't have been completed at that time. Was it an intern? “Yes?” I called out.

“Can I come in?”

Grinning, I stood from the mirror and opened the door, greeting the man on the other side with the biggest hug I could manage. “Zexion!” My voice was breathless. “It's been too long.”

He nodded in agreement, returning the hug tentatively with all the courage of a bunny. “Five years,” he mused quietly, fiddling a few pins set into a messenger bag at his side. It was canvas, pierced by so many safety pins and buttons that it was hard to count how many there were.

“Six,” I corrected. At his questioning gaze I replied, “You left between semesters.” He shrugged, but I could tell he was embarrassed. “Would you like to sit down?”

Glancing about the immaculate waiting room, the man took a seat on the overstuffed loveseat as I went back to removing the stage makeup. “Thanks.” Reaching into his messenger bag, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes. American Eagles. “Do you mind?” he asked, fingers half poised to retrieve one.

I shrugged. “Go ahead.”

He swiftly knocked one out of the package and lit up, taking a deep drag before blowing the smoke at the floor. I watched him almost physically unravel, relaxing bit-by-bit until he was a metaphorical puddle of goo on the couch. “God I needed that,” he gasped.

Taking care around my eyes, I swiped at the remnants of the eyeliner with a wipe. “So what have you been up to, aside from Mogadishu Relief and Africa Awareness programs?” His hair was back in the familiar pony-tail that I was used to, and thanks to this I could see that his roots were not yet showing. Recently dyed. Either he'd actually prepared for the interview or it just happened to work with his touch-up schedule.

“Not much,” he admitted, brushing a stray hair from his eyes. “Teaching, obviously. I've been videotaping the class' reaction when they realize who I am during new semesters.”

“They never expect Z. Corazza to actually be Z. Corazza, huh?”

With a weak shrug, the man took another deep drag, prompting a short silence. As I worked at my makeup, I spied on him through the mirror. His clothes were pristine and freshly pressed, but hung on him in a way that implied that he didn't wear them often. He obviously wore jeans whenever he could- probably even to classes, now. They couldn't fire him for something as simple as a dress code violation. He'd invented a Time Machine for goodness' sake.

The moment it took me to come to this conclusion was actually a lengthy three minutes of a four minute lull, in which the man began to fidget. After while Zexion announced, “You've changed.” I paused in my removal routine- nearly done- and stared at him.

Curious, I inquired, “How so.”

“Your eyes aren't flying everywhere but me, for one.” Crossing his legs, the blue-haired man leaned back into the couch. “I highly doubt you're still basing everything you're thinking on stereotypes and incorrect patterns. I don't need to see your movies or your acting to know that.”

“How so?”

“Because I'm a genius,” he mocked. We shared a lengthy laugh at this. “It's really nice to see you again, Demyx.”

“Of course,” I replied. “It's not every day you get to relive High School.”

He stopped fidgeting. His grin, previously light and pleasant, grew a bit cynical. “Yes it is,” he scoffed. “It's not every day I get to see a good friend who isn't dead-set on exploiting me.”

I shrugged. “How do you know I'm not exploiting you?”

Another laugh. He was leaning forward, then, resting his elbows on his knees and grinning up at me with a smile so bright it was as if the only emotion he'd ever contained was pure joy. “You are a lot of things, Demyx,” he began. “Silly, unusual, and blond come to mind. As do stupid, unorthodox, and redundant.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But there's no way you could ever be an extortionist. You're just too honest for that.”

The complement, while heavy, was believable. “So that's why.”

“Why what?” He was fidgeting again.

I started back up no my makeup removal. “Why you invited me to be your assistant. Heck- why you're here now. I've always wondered why you do the things you do, considering they almost never make any sense. In the end I'm some kind of reprieve from modern day life.” Pausing, I set the cloth down and turned to him.

A choke of a laugh later, he was peering up at me behind his fringe with a grin, smoke peeking out through the sheet. “Yeah, pretty much. Honesty is a great asset in an assistant.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, silently deciding whether or not to ask for a cigarette, if only to distract myself from the way his lips fit around the base and sucking the smoke down. Nerds. They would always be my weakness, and Zexion would always be their King. I crossed my legs. “But it doesn't explain why you left.”

He shrugged, leaning back into the couch. “I got a better offer.”

“You know what I'm talking about,” I snapped, surprising even myself with the tone. Taking a second to calm myself, I continued in as even a voice as I could manage. “It was stupid, I know, but we didn't need to leave things that way between us.”

“I'm over it-”

“Well I'm not!” Shooting from my seat, I ignored the chair as it toppled to the ground with a clatter. “No one just 'gets over' things like that, and we can't leave things open forever.”

He was staring at the floor, and right then I wanted nothing more than to see his face. Just what was going on inside that head of his? Who knew? He and I never would think alike. We'd never be on the same page, the same level, see eye to eye- whatever they're calling it these days. Point is, it just wouldn't happen. We could explain things until the cows came home, and nothing would come of it.

I think he knew that.

“Demyx, to be honest I don't even remember what we fought about. It's been five-”

“Six,” I corrected. He sighed.

“It's been years since we had that fight. What are you expecting me to do?” Drawing his knees up onto the couch, the man appeared to be curling in on himself in defense. “Am I supposed to pick up where I last left off?”

“I don't know,” I admitted after a second. “I guess I just expected something more after six years of nothing. We were friends, Zexion, and you up and left and didn't bother to call. What was I supposed to think, aside from the fact that you might still be mad?”

Shuffling a bit, the blue-haired man picked at his shirt's cuff for a bit before slowly turning his face up to meet my gaze. He was quiet for a long while.

A knock at the door startled the both of us. Catching himself, Zexion arranged himself into a more professional position on the couch. “Yes?” I called.

The door eased open to reveal the intern that had cued me in. Noticing Zexion off the bat, he stiffened. “Recording's over. I assume the both of you received invitations to lunch.”

“Yes.” My reply was a bit clipped, but I didn't worry about that. “We'll be out soon, thank you.” Nodding, the intern left, closing the door softly behind him.

“So-” Zexion began as soon as the sound of footsteps had receded. His voice caught- the second time it had done so. It was so... uncharacteristic. Clearing his throat, he continued. “So, you and Naminé didn't work out, I see. Did something happen?” My response was automatic. Flushed face, closing throat, giant wave of _embarrassment_ , and a gaping mouth that resembled that of a fish. He didn't give me a chance to respond, however, when he swiftly stood and made for the door. I didn't know which surprised me more: the fact that he remembered Naminé or the subtly pleased undertone to his voice.

“You should know- you saw our date.”

“That session cut off because your adrenaline spiked, remember?”

“Yeah- it's called absolute horror.”

We were silent for a bit more before he pushed more. “If it's something I can help with- etiquette, dealing with women, or other things- all you have to do is ask.”

“You're _gay_ ,” I replied, sounding far sharper than I intended. “How can you help with girl problems?”

He jumped at the term, glancing around the room for cameras or snooping press before fixing me with a look. “If you keep it down, that would be fantastic,” he hissed. “I've got enough on my plate without people hearing about _that_.”

I scoffed. “You told me readily enough.”

“Because I knew I could trust you,” the man spat. “Don't go proving me wrong, now.”

Turning back to the mirror, I began wiping at the remains of the facial powder with a baby wipe. It was then, without looking him in the eye, that I admitted, “I couldn't get it up.” This was met with a small bout of silence.

“Right. What really happened?”

Let's just say it's rather discouraging to have the truth denied. “That wasn't a joke.”

It seemed to sink in. “Seriously?” He sputtered, and I glanced at his reflection. Jaw slack, arms limp, eyes wide- the picture of surprise. “But you're always so...” Pausing momentarily, the man searched for the perfect word for the oh-so-delicate situation this no doubt was. To be honest I probably would have socked him if he hadn't. After a bit he settled on, “excitable.”

 _Congratulations, Zexion,_ I sarcastically mused. _You won't be leaving the room with a black eye._

“Heck- you're excited now!”

 _Hold that thought._ Just as I stood to sock the guy there was another knock at the door.

“Sorry to intrude,” the intern from before meekly announced. “But everyone's waiting.”

To summarize the following events, we went to lunch, I did _not_ punch Zexion in the face, and life is an unfair bitch.

…

There's a difference between waking up with a hangover and waking up with to a telephone. Let it be known that waking up to a cacophony of the two is a terrible death sentence never meant to be survived. If you plan on getting drunk, unplug your phone. Seriously. No one deserves to go through this shit.

See, it was around two in the afternoon, and I didn't have work that day. I did, however, get to witness my world shattering into tiny little painful shards of _shit_ much in the way that it properly should after a very long and overdue date with the little green fairy. And while my attraction to booze was a healthy appreciation of the art of booze-drinking, it still lead to horrible shit. Like hangovers that lasted for days and light sensitivity to rival a sledgehammer to the retina. And I had woken to the screeching of a telephone.

I wanted to drop dead then and there. Just go at it with a bottle of artificial arsenic and hope for the best. Fuck life.

A good three seconds into this thought I realized that willing myself to death wouldn't work, nor would willing the telephone to mute itself. But eventually it would go quiet and I would be able to sleep off the rest of my hangover in peace. And the phone did eventually silence itself, proving their was a God and that He was truly merciful. I idly considered going to church.

When the phone rang again I dashed the idea and damned the dictionary of names in hope that somewhere within its pages was the person who dared call me on my day off.

No go.

Eventually, when the phone had ceased and resumed a good five times and my migraine was a throbbing singularity that was consuming the world, I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and made for the phone. My legs were limp noodles, at best. At one point I actually fell and had to literally drag myself the rest of the way. Clambering up onto the couch, I situated myself and waited for the person to call again. My entire body was an achy mess, and nausea permeated every inch of my being. Luckily, in my booze-filled haze the night before I'd left an unfinished tin of popcorn beside the unholy message carrier. Pleased with myself, I munched. As my stomach settled just that little bit, the phone rang. I picked up immediately.

“Who is it?” I snapped.

_“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”_

I rolled my eyes. “I had a late reunion with my friends Everclear and Absinth. Why the fuck are you calling, Zexion?” There would be no use asking him how he got my personal phone number. Or why he was shouting. He was a man of mystery capable of anything from blackmail to torture, testimonies on live television be damned.

 _“Watch your language,”_ the man replied. _“And why are you getting drunk this early?”_

“I'm not drunk,” I replied. “I'm hungover. It means I was drunk yesterday.” The phone was not helping the migraine. “Why the fuck are you calling?”

_“I wanted to know what you're doing tomorrow night.”_

Pausing in my mental pity-party, I mulled over the man's words. “Nothing- are you asking me out?”

 _“Your place, 8PM. Don't be late.”_ Then he slammed the phone so loud my eardrum felt like it had ruptured.

In retrospect, that was probably the migraine, but at the time I just wanted to blame someone.

…

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Zexion on my front porch, looking all relaxed in jeans and a button-up, carrying what looked to be a bag of groceries. I couldn't ask him, “Why are you here?” That would have been silly. We both knew why he was there, and that I couldn't forget even though when the “date” had been set I was hungover on the ungodly cross between six shots of Everclear and two glasses of Absinth.

Ah, the downsides to an Eidetic memory.

“Don't look so surprised.”

“This isn't my surprised face. This is my 'Oh God, the world has ended' face.” The groceries were shoved into my arms and he shoved me roughly aside, took off his shoes, and promptly destroyed my kitchen.

By “destroyed” I of course mean “used.” Before that day it had never known more than popcorn, microwave dinners, cup noodles, ice cream, and makeshift bag-o'-peas cold packs. And yet there he was, whisking... something and frying... something else. It all smelled wonderful. But every time I went to step into the kitchen to figure out just what it was that he was making I was promptly banished. The entire situation was in a word strange. Zexion himself was strange. The strangest person I knew.

Around my twentieth attempt at infiltrating the kitchen he gave up and let me roam my own house in peace. “What are you making?” I asked, coming up behind him to peer into the skillet. “Chicken?”

“It's Salmon, actually.” He was quite the sight in his apron.

“Oh.”

“Do you like fish?”

“Yeah- they're pretty cute.”

Zexion chuckled at this. “You're very strange.”

“You're one to talk,” I huffed. “Barging in here with your paper bag and you Salmon and your...” I paused, picking up a stalk of celery from the counter. “Your leafy greens and your cooking. It's just not natural! The stove will haunt me forever- the microwave mourns its disuse.” He paused in his cooking, taking a step to the side. Leaning against the counter, he fixed me with a look.

“You don't seriously live on canned soup and instant ramen, do you?”

I feigned insult, gasping and pressing a hand against my chest in mock hurt. “How dare you!” I melodramatically whimpered. “I get takeout, too!” The entire situation felt so natural. It was as if we'd never been apart.

He laughed, and we shared smiles for a bit. It was nice at first, but soon became uncomfortable when it started to stretch into a minute of silence, then two. I didn't say anything, and neither did Zexion. Then an undeniable urge seized me. One that both shocked and scared me.

 _Kiss him_ , a part of me whispered. _Kiss him._

Already my eyes were flicking to his lips, then to his eyes. He saw the movement, and for a moment it seemed as though his gaze smouldered. But then the gaze broke, and Zexion was cooking again. His blue hair was in the all-familiar pony-tail, and his apron was tight around his waist, but he might as well have been in the nude for all I was drawn to him. Eventually I managed to turn on the spot and made a beeline for my room.

It was going to be a long night.

…

And it was.

At dinner I couldn't move. Instead I just sat there munching away on Salmon glazed in some kind of sauce thing and hoped to God he didn't notice my raging stiffy. Then again, he probably knew by then, what with my squirming and half-choked responses. But he looked distracted (which didn't help) so there was a chance he didn't.

His hair was down, too.

It was strange, seeing him without the ponytail. It was almost like he was a different person entirely. Someone dark and handsome. Someone who could very well work in my line of business. A musician, maybe. And yet he was a scientist, happily plunking away at a computer all day every day, teaching the young and bright how to be old and brilliant.

Behind it all I could tell that all these years, with all that money, he hadn't changed a bit. Well, except the 'learning to cook' part. But then, I'd never had his cooking before. It really was fantastic. And he'd set the table, too. There were folded napkins and ordered silverware settings- heck, he'd even placed a lit candle in the center of a ring of garland! Everything seemed like it had been taken out of some movie where the main character was a beautiful young woman being courted by a rich older man. There would be romantic music, witty dialogue, and just a touch of heaving bosoms and bodice-ripping. Then the movie would go on to reveal that the man was the target of an assassin or some such nonsense, but their love would save him and the two would live happily ever after. But we were both men, and they didn't make romantic movies about two men. It just wasn't done.

“What would you say,” Zexion began, startling me out of my revery, “if I told you I needed advice?”

I shrugged. “I'd ask if you were feeling okay, then ask what the problem was. Why?”

“Because I need advice.”

“Are you feeling okay?” He glared. I laughed. “What seems to be the problem?” Wiping at my mouth with the (impeccably folded) napkin, I settled back into my chair.

“What do you think of me?”

“You're a sneaky, selfish little bastard with blue hair, a high IQ, a superiority complex, and an inability to understand anyone aside from yourself.” A short silence followed the admission.

An eyebrow was raised. “You really didn't pull any punches, did you?”

“Fine- you're a _sexy_ little bastard with blue hair, a high IQ, a superiority complex, and an inability to understand anyone aside from your-”

In what seemed like one quick movement Zexion had blown out the candle, set it aside, leaned over the table, and kissed me.

At first it didn't register. To be honest I hadn't gotten any in a long while. Actually, to be completely honest I was a virgin. I couldn't get it up for girls, and despite the stereotype gay men are really hard to find in show business. And even if one does locate a gay man, the chances of them being nerds? Really low. And they have to be single, attractive, healthy, there needs to be chemistry- the list was endless!

And in the end there was just Zexion.

Zexion, who I'd known since High School.

Zexion, who invented the Time Machine.

Zexion, who was leaning over the table.

Zexion, who was kissing me so tentatively that I knew he was so, so nervous.

Slowly, he pulled away. His hair had gotten in the way of some of the kiss. Half of the contact had been with his fringe, to be honest. But there was a spark that lit in my stomach that had nothing to do with my boner, because there Zexion was, the most desirable thing on the planet, unsure and willing. What was a sane man to do?

Here's what I did.

First, I stood up. Second, I grabbed that man's hand and lead him into the living room. Third, I pressed a series of kisses to his lips so hard he fell onto the couch. I was right behind him, straddling his hips and burying my hands in his hair. He seemed eager, clutching at my clothes and gasping at all the right moments. The only point of alarm was that his hands were trembling. Were we moving too fast? Was he scared? Was he a virgin, too?

It was hard to think things like that when he tasted of tobacco and clutched at me like a lifeline. He craned his neck to eagerly receive the kisses, nudging between my legs with his knee. That's when he struck gold. I whispered profanities into his mouth when his hand replaced it, grasping me through the denim of my jeans. The whole world went white for a second, and he just kept doing it. “Do you know how it works?” he asked, and I couldn't believe what he was saying. My stomach had dropped down somewhere near China.

“No,” I admitted. “Do you?” He shook his head in a negative. “Then I'll...” I trailed off as his mouth met mine once more, dragging me down into a demanding kiss. When we broke for air I gasped, “How does someone go about learning how to do stuff like that? I mean- two guys...” I sighed, then grinned.

He sighed, which came out like more of a gasp than anything. “What are you so happy about?”

“Would you like to be my boyfriend?” I asked. Zexion's eyes widened. “Not public or anything. God knows what people would do to us.” His expression seemed to ease at this.

After a tense moment he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I would like that very much.”

We sealed it with a kiss.

“You get back to dinner,” I advised, standing from the couch. “I'll just, well, _take care of things_ really quick.”

He laughed. “Gotcha.”

…

“Something good happen?”

Looking up from the schedule in my hands, I locked eyes with my assistant, Lelo. “Come again?”

Tucking a stray strand of long black hair behind her ear, she shrugged. “Well, you've been grinning all day. Did you get laid or something?” Lelo was the kind of girl who motioned with her hands. When she said “grinning” she pointed to a dimple, pushing her cheek up, and with “day” she made a waving motion. It was a bit obscene considering when she said “laid.” She made a fist with her left hand and grabbed the sides with the four outside fingers of her right. Then the fingers bent and it appeared as though her right hand was “humping” her left. The middle finger was left extended. She did this twice before stopping.

I blinked. “I don't really think that's any of your business.” The imagery was a bit disturbing, and it would never, ever leave me after that.

Heaving a sighed, the young woman rolled her eyes. “Right. I was just asking.” Her hand did some kind of wingy-thing that was really distracting.

All in all, she was as weird as usual.

Zexion and I had been official for a good three weeks at that point, and it was proving unusually easy to hide our relationship. However, it was a bit difficult to hide the ecstatic moods that would grasp me at odd moments whenever I wasn't paying attention. Thankfully, people took it as a happy-go-lucky thing. “Since you asked, I'm happy because I had stir fry for breakfast.” I really did. Zexion was proving very handy with a Wok.

“Stir fry?” She laughed. “Well, I guess that would have anyone in a good mood.” More movements with her hands in a way that I could only guess meant “happy” or something.

Allowing my grin to grow, I shrugged. “The world be a much better place if everyone had stir fry for breakfast.”

“Where'd you get Stir Fry that early in the morning, though?” she asked. No doubt she wanted some for herself. Not that the stirring action of her right hand was any indication.

“Made it.”

Lelo raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Right- you can barely open a can! Where'd you really get it?”

“The truth?” I asked, suddenly nervous. Taking care not to let it show, I responded with, “A buddy from High School and I were having a movie marathon last night. It got late, so he stayed over. He made it.”

“Ooh!” the woman excitedly mused. “A man who can cook? Now that's a new one. Is he single?” Her arms were waving at that point.

The dreaded question. “I'm not sure.” Best to play it safe. I glanced at my watch. “Well, it's time to get started.”

Glancing at her own watch, she jumped. “You're right- grah!” Rushing off, Lelo promptly started knocking on makeup trailers and shouting things like, “Let's get started, people,” and, “Let's make that movie magic!” Her arms were flying every which way, and it looked a lot like a safety hazard. It was quite entertaining.

But entertaining or not, I had to be more careful.

…

Three months into our relationship Zexion in my foyer as I looked on in disbelief and disappointment. He held a plastic shopping bag in one hand, and the other rest on his jutted hip. The man stared me down, refusing to budge an inch as I looked on in shock and slight disgust, mulling over his words in my head. “What do you mean?” I gasped. “You must be joking.”

“What's there to joke about?”

“But- you went to a gay bar! Without me!” My cheeks flushed with jealousy.

Zexion sighed, obviously not intimidated by my impending wrath. Then again, it wasn't very impressive. “Demyx, my face isn't as well known as yours. And since we can't ask any of our friends for this kind of information we need an outside source. It's best to keep a low profile.”

I bristled. “Going to a gay bar isn't keeping a low profile.”

“It's as low as we're going to get, and it came with results so I really don't think you should be passing judgment.” Stepping into the house, he shoved the plastic bag into my hands as he rubbed at his hands. It was early January, and his sweater and jeans combo hadn't kept him nearly warm enough on his trip from the car to my front door. Red had risen in his cheeks and fingertips, adding a healthy touch of color to his usual pallor. Closing the door behind him, I took hold of his hands, bringing them to my face and nuzzling them until they were warm. When I looked up from the action Zexion was grinning a grin that spread straight from his eyes. “You're so cute sometimes,” he giggled.

“So, um...” I trailed off for a second as he stared up at me in confusion. “What did you learn?”

“Oh!” He then stepped away from me and made his way to the living room. Curious, I followed. Trailing him to the couch, I watched as he took the bag from my hand and laid the contents out before me. Vaseline, Condoms, Vaseline, and more Vaseline. “To my understanding, it's pretty similar to how it would be with a girl. Just, you know, an extra penis.” My face went aflame, but I tried not to react too strongly. It would only make things more awkward for Zexion. Who knew how he reacted to whatever information he was about to share when he first learned it. From his expression, one of pure mortification, we were about to go into a gray area. “Apparently someone has to take it up the ass.”

Silence.

“Come again?”

“See, there's an organ in the rectal cavity called the prostate-”

“Like the cancer?”

“-and when stimulated-”

“Wait- stimulated?!”

“-it usually ends up signaling the brain that whatever is happening it's, well, _good_.” Zexion's eye twitched at that. “Really, really good. But without proper stretching and lubrication it can result in tearing of the rectal wall and... Well, we just don't want that.” Heaving a sigh, the man clenched his eyes shut. “It also means that someone has to clean out their... _you know what_ before anything happens. Otherwise things get very brown very fast.”

There was a pause. “And the condoms? I'm pretty sure I'm not going to get your pregnant.” It was an attempt to lighten to mood, but it only made Zexion's shoulders sink.

“It's to prevent infections and generally make things easier for both parties.”

The following silence was quite possibly the most awkward thing I have ever had to sit through. And I'm a _Director_.

“So,” I began shakily, pointedly staring at anything but the small pile of sex-aids before me. “Are we going to rock-paper-scissors this or something? You know- who's going to take it up the...” I trailed off, suddenly feeling a lot like the world was passing into some new kind of age before my very eyes simply because we were really, really going to take this step. An age where everything starts looking, smelling, and feeling different everywhere you went. Who knew? Maybe Kung-Fu would get popular with ten year olds, Madonna would go out of fashion, and greasy hair would be “in” among teenagers. The world would have a grainy, beige-gray feel to it that would cloak the streets for everyone with that foggy filter. Parents would take pictures of their own children in funny shirts instead of ugly sweaters with film designed for landscaping that would show hair in different shades of brown instead of blonde, and jeans, not poodle skirts, would be acceptable wear everywhere one went.

Now that was a generation I could get behind.

“No,” Zexion managed after clearing his throat, bringing me out of my revery. “I'll, uh, _take it_.”

It took a few moments for what he said to sink in. And even then I didn't get what he said. “Take what?”

“You know,” he muddled, turning his eyes to the floor, face aflame. “It'll _take it_.”

Screwing up my face, I tried to figure out just what the man was saying. Take what? The condoms? The lube? But that didn't make any sense. “I don't follow.”

He looked up from the floor to fix me with a stare. It was a bit unnerving, and thankfully he looked away after a few seconds. Pressing his face into his palm, Zexion heaved a sigh. “You know what? Never mind. We'll try this again some other time.”

This bugged me for a bit, but I eventually let it go. It was all for the best. Besides, I wouldn't understand half of what he was saying until a good year later.


	4. Part Four: In Which Zexion Kicks Ass

Author's Note (Read: Apology): I realize it's been a LOT longer than a month since I promised to update. But since the last chapter I've lost internet, moved, changed betas twice, joined the KH Big Bang, attended three anime conventions, started six other projects, gone camping twice, caught a series of illnesses including a two-week cold, finished the KH big bang, redone my drawing style, injured my knee, came into possession of two new video games, and have generally been ridiculously busy. So... yeah. That's why it's late.

...

The thing about talking to Demyx on the phone, which makes being apart from him almost worth it, is hearing him smile. It wasn't any particular noise or anything. There were just these moments where a brief interlude of silence was allowed to pass. It was during that silence that I knew that he was smiling. Not some silly smile, or some huge, bright smile that could light up a room. Just a small thing that barely touched his lips, but would fill his eyes with a tenderness reserved especially for me.

After one of these smiles my heart always felt like it could overflow.

…

Part Four: In Which Zexion Kicks Ass

…

The worst thing about the Machine of Time (or Time Machine) was that it took me away from Demyx. Back in the days when we were both your average Joe trying to get through life, or college, without killing anyone (at least on my part) we had all the time in the world for each other. And even when we didn't have time one of us would find time. One of us meaning me, of course, seeing as we hadn't started dating until long after he had fled the college scene.

My thoughts always wandered to this every time I settled down for too long, back then. It had begun to get ridiculous. But that was life in a nutshell. Anything that you didn't want to think about would immediately present itself to you on a silver platter.

And yet it didn't explain why after all my hard work the world still couldn't get over itself and let me love him.

…

It is finally time, my dear readers, to begin a sarcastic narrative styled in a fashion that you have no doubt grown accustomed. Previous installments have seen to the fact that you have been acclimatised, in the bare minimum, to long, rambling sentences that go on for many an hour, the quantity of which can only be rivaled by the amount of incest, genocide, rape, and bestiality in the Old Testament.

And now that two rambling sentences have been completed, we may continue our narrative with a mixture of obligation and ironic humor.

As a Homosexual, left-handed Catholic man I consider myself reasonably tolerant for the things I believe in. (It helps that I practice from home instead of attending mass.) To be honest I am the type to pick and choose what I want from my religion. Otherwise I would be more likely to follow Buddah or the Flying Pasta Monster that seems to be so popular with the teens these days. (Or the path of a Jedi Master, though that is only a legitimate form of worship in Canada. Oh, Canada.) As things stand, I believe in God, and choose to remain the Catholic son my parents raised me to be.

But back to tolerance. It came in handy quite a bit. Mainly due to the fact that, to some extent, tolerance can extend to patience, and vise-versa, or however spell-check would proclaim that word correct. The point is, I consider myself a rather patient person when I know there is a reason to wait. For an example of my person being impatient, please refer to part three of this ridiculous tale that does not seem to fit with my barren personality.

And with that note on patience, I leave you to the common style of writing that also partakes in this story, one of description and dialogue, for we must now rejoin my younger self 10,000 feet above sea-level (or however high planes fly) on a flight bound for London.

After three hours of hell in a hand-basket, which other persons refer to as “bag check” and “ugg, we aren't allowed to use electronics yet,” I was allowed to place a phone call. Turning my cell phone on, I selected the first speed dial and made a small evaluation of what was around me. It was first class (which was nice,) so there weren't too many other people around. Stewards in this section were paid to mind their own business, and the other passengers were in their own worlds. The jets seemed to be louder than usual, but that might just have been nerves. (I don't like flying.) Finally, satisfied that no one would be too suspicious, I finished the number and pressed the phone to my ear.

It rang twice before going to the voice mail box I'd forced him to get. “ _Hey, you've reached Demyx O'Donohue. Leave your name, number, and order of business after the beep._ ” It beeped.

“Hey, you know who it is. You asked me to call, so the least you could do is pick up. I'm on the plane, and I don't have much time before I'm out of range-”

There was a single loud _click_ before Demyx's voice carried over the phone. “ _Zexion!_ ” he gasped. “ _I'm so sorry._ ” Then the man distinctly yawned, but attempted to talk around it the way people tend to do. “ _Work ran late last night and – I'm so sorry!_ ”

Suppressing a grin, I adjusted myself in the seat, crossing my legs. “It's alright, hon. Don't worry about it.” For a moment I considered adding on, 'I'm just glad you picked up,' but there was no use saying what he already knew. “How was your morning?”

“ _I just woke up, silly!_ ” he replied with a laugh. “ _Yours?_ ”

“Long. Tiring. Missed you on takeoff.”

He huffed. “ _I would have been there if I could,_ ” the man replied over the line. “ _But we start shooting in two hours._ ”

“I know,” I replied, suppressing a sigh. Boy did I know. “It was just kind of weird, having the kids there without you.”

“ _Xion made it, then. Lucky,_ ” the man groaned longingly. “ _Who else was there?_ ”

“Pretty much my entire class from the East Coast was there. Well, the ones in my specialty courses, anyway. They brought me cake. It was nice.”

On the other line, Demyx laughed. “ _But you can't have frosting._ ”

“Well...” I trailed off, preparing myself for an entirely out-of-character comment. “It's the thought that counts.” Glancing at the phone, I found myself with one bar. “Hey, I'm going out of range. I maybe have about thirty seconds.”

A short silence followed before he spoke. “ _I love you,_ ” he whispered, almost as if he were afraid if he said it any louder he'd choke. “ _I'm going to miss you._ ”

“I love you too, honey,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. “And I'll miss you more.”

And there it was. That small interlude between speech following something as normal as reminders of our mutual affection. For that moment I could hear him smiling.

“ _You are outside the range of your cell phone plan. Please-_ ” The rest of the words didn't register. Lowering the phone to my chest, I ended the call and took a few deep breaths.

Flying sucks, but flying without Demyx is terrifying.

…

England was a pile of clichés waiting for its own bubble to pop. The food was terrible, the people were – in a word – rude, and the phones had little to no connectivity. Least to say, none of my calls to America – to Demyx – went through.

Ireland was better. The food was good, the air was clean, and the beer – while a little bland compared to cosmopolitans and margaritas I was used to – came with better company than I could find in any bar in the US.

But Wales, while being very similar to Ireland, was different. It held rolling hills of grass and cattle, along with a surprising amount of sheep, much like the Green Isle. My soon-to-be-business partners in this part of the UK were a man and woman in their mid-thirties with two children and an enormous flock of sheep they would shave in the summers for wool. The quality of which they were known for. (I was surprised to find that my coat, which I bought in England, actually came from their wool farm.) In short, I loved Wales. (Warning: I, Zexion Corazza, might be just a bit biased due to Demyx's Welsh heritage.)

On Tuesdays they would visit the local pub, where a mix of English and Welsh was constantly floating through the air. Considering how different the two were I thought it would be impossible to speak both at once, but they would mix words from both languages in their speech with an ease that I couldn't help but be impressed by. Occasionally a song would go around, and I was surprised at how many people joined in, and how well everyone could carry a tune. (I can't carry one in a wheelbarrow.) After a year of this, even after leaving my business partners to check on the machinery suppliers further north, Wales felt like home.

And yet it wasn't. Every so often, when I was out and about, I thought I saw Demyx on the street, or in the pub. Instead it was just someone with similar facial features. I shouldn't have been surprised – Demyx _did_ come from a Welsh family. But it strung me thin.

It was in Wales that I decided to cut my trip short. Six months of business meetings later, I arrived in the London airport with my things.

…

Already feeling the jet-lag, I dragged my things over to the pick-up station, where taxis waited by the dozen. It occurred to me that it all might have been more convenient if I had a butler. This thought was soon brushed off to the ground with a disappointed scowl. I'd have to swear them to secrecy. If anything got out it would be the end of me.

And to think – I hadn't even killed anyone.

…

When I welcomed Demyx home from work, let's just say he was enthusiastic.

…

It was quiet in the hills of California; strange for a Saturday night. Usually the neighbors had parties, cluttering the surrounding blocks with cars, drunk hookers, the overpowering stench of booze and sex, and very loud music. And yet it was silent aside from the occasional passing car. Then again, I'd never been to California during April. Maybe it was normal. I should have been tired. Exhausted, actually. But as soon as I returned we'd gone at it like rabbits. Two, no, four very enthusiastic times. I should have been three seconds from passing out. And yet there I was, wide awake beside my lover and really, really sore.

The wall was my companion. Moonlight filtered in between the curtains, casting shadows through the room but illuminating the far side. It was bright blue and decorated with a number of framed photos. Mostly nature shots, from what could be made out in the low light. There were a few Chinese fans, as well. They seemed to be coming into fashion. Earlier Demyx had mentioned something about Silk Paintings – maybe he was going for an Oriental theme. I stretched, careful not to nudge my partner, before turning my eyes back to the photos.

After growing tired of the wall decorations, I heaved a sigh and rolled out of bed, but not before pressing a soft kiss to my boyfriend's cheek. The alarm clock read three-thirty in the morning – far too early to actually get anything done. My mind flashed back toward the throes of passion, as some would call them. The flash in the corner of my eye – where had it been? If memory served, it was near the dresser. Going to investigate, I pulled aside a set of pants. Right away I was rewarded. Sitting ever-so-innocently, angled toward the bed, was a video camera. Bulky, but portable. It was a hand-held model going by the size and the strap, all gray plastic and glass. Picking it up, I examined it. It was running.

Turning back to the bed, I grinned saucily. “Kinky,” I whispered, though I would have preferred it if he had asked first. Stopping the recording, I rewound for a bit before hitting play. Peering into the mouth, I found myself greeted by the sight of Demyx and myself sleeping. Rewinding a bit more, I tried again, then grinned. There we were, going at it not three hours prior. Demyx taking charge like a champ. For a moment it occurred to me that if he wanted to make a tape he should have angled us better during the act itself. He should know better, being a director. Then again, he was a pretty single-minded person when it came to love. (That honesty had been what drew me to him in the first place.)

Stopping the machine, I ejected the tape and dropped it into one of my travel bags beside the bed. It would drive him crazy, no doubt, but he _really_ should have asked first. I set the camera back down where I had found it, beneath the pair of pants, running and recording with no tape inside. Satisfied with the (completely necessary) screwing with Demyx's plans, I made for the kitchen, dragging a lazy hand along the wall as I went.

Two rooms later, I was digging a cup of instant Ramen from the pantry. Lazy hands filled it, then set it in the microwave. I changed the heat setting to low, and programmed it to cook for ten minutes. (That way the noodles get nice and fat.) A minute of boredom passed. I grabbed some chopsticks from the cutlery drawer.

Without warning, a hand fell across my eyes, and my “assailant's” free arm wound around my waist in an intimate hold. I grinned. “Did I wake you?” I whispered. “Just because I'm up doesn't mean you have to be.” Warm lips descended on my throat, tracing the side almost impatiently, working their way up. Not much later a series of butterfly kisses were placed along the cusp of my ear before a set of teeth bit down on the lobe. Demyx wasn't much of a biter, sadly, so it was a bit of a shame to have to stop him. “Don't you start. We already did it four times last night. I'm really sore.”

The grasp around my waist suddenly tightened to the point of bruising, and there was a short, deep laugh. “That lucky bastard.” I forced my way out of the man's arms, almost jumping to the other side of the kitchen to face him down. “You never let me top.”

“And it was a good thing, too,” I replied sharply. “Virginity isn't something you're worthy of.”

“Ouch!” Marluxia struck a melodramatic pose, with one arm in the air and a hand to his heart. “You wound me, fair Zexion.”

That's when he started to advance on me. Feeling far too exposed, I searched around for a weapon to use against my 'guest.' However, there was nothing potentially lethal on my side of the kitchen, with the knife block, grilling prongs, and pots and pans conveniently behind my attacker. Desperate for some sort of weapon, I settled for a rubber spatula. It wasn't much, but it would hurt if swung hard enough. Wielding it like a sword, I taunted him with, “What's with the dye job? Stylist finally croak?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” the man mused monotonously. “Haven't you heard? I'm an actor, now.”

“I can believe that – you always were good at fooling everyone. Friends, family, girlfriends, boyfriends-”

Marluxia bristled. “It's not like I cheated on you!”

“No,” I hissed. “You just took my life's work and tried to sell the patent behind my back! That's not cheating, that's theft!” It was around the word 'patent' that I realized I was in nothing but a pair of boxers. Alarmed, I slowly backed toward the dining room, where I could make my escape. “All because your little girlfriend didn't want to get an abortion.”

“She wasn't my girlfriend.”

“She was when you had sex.”

“That was months before us.”

“But you brought it into my house.”

“What was I supposed to do?” he hissed. “Drop out? Get a job? Get married? Live a lie for the rest of my God Damned _life_?” A wave of new anger rose up inside me at these words, stopping me in my tracks.

Anger rose in me. “What about acting? Isn't that living a lie, too?” He flinched.

“I have to live a lie wherever I am – you know that. You've lived it. You know.”

“Why are you here?” I gritted out.

Face going somber, the man across the kitchen had the gall to look shy. “To ask if you were willing to live it with me.”

Without thinking, I tossed the spatula aside, took the few steps forward to face him squarely, and threw my fist forward. He blocked the punch, like I expected, but didn't think to watch my knee. It connected hard between his legs.

Inside me bloomed a sick sort of satisfaction as the man doubled over. “Demyx,” I called, “we have a visitor.”

“I'll go public,” Marluxia suddenly announced from his place convulsing on the kitchen floor. “I'll reveal you both to the public. The whole world will know.” The squeak in his voice made the threat sound empty.

Demyx emerged from the room, then, scratching his stomach in a very comic-like fashion. “What's going on?”

“Intruder alert,” I drawled. “You didn't happen to invite one Mr. Marluxia Ferguson to your humble abode on this wondrous morning, did you?”

Upon reaching the 'scene of the crime,' Demyx groaned. “Marluxia, I already told you that we can't expand your role to the second movie – it just won't work.”

“The world will know,” the pink haired man continued. “The world will know about you Homosexual fucks.”

Eyes widening in surprise, my boyfriend broke out in a sarcastic grin. “So this is serious.”

I fixed Marluxia with a look, far from amused. “You're one of us 'Homosexual fucks,' too, you know.” Heaving a sigh, I turned to Demyx. “How do you know this clown?”

He shrugged. “He's my antagonist in _Chain of Memories_. You?”

“You know how I had that assistant before you?”

“The one who tried to rip you off?”

“That's the one.” The microwave went off. I retrieved my Ramen.

“That's him?”

“Yeah.”

“Scumbag.” Scoffing, Demyx took a step forward to kick Marluxia in the stomach. His entire body convulsing, the pink haired man groaned. The blond then took a knee by his side, roughly turning him over. “I had you over yesterday. What gives? Miss me already?”

“Zexion-”

“Gotcha,” the blond interrupted, dropping his usual smile. I could only look on in wonder as something else took him over. A side that was all business. A past role, perhaps? “Here's how this is going to go down. You,” he pointed to Marluxia, “are in deep shit. I will be going to the press with the information that you broke into my house. We will be withholding further information from the newspapers unless you deem it necessary to let loose to the world your little finding.” At this I realized that Demyx had been spending too much time in the real world. “If I catch even a whisper that you're thinking about going to the press I will announce that during the break in you sexually assaulted my guest and threatened us.” That was when I realized that I had been a really good buffer up until that point.

A small silence followed, during which it occurred to me that I should ask him about the camera. Or would that not be a smart move in front of Marluxia? I thought. Oh well – it would come up some other time.

“Go get dressed, would you?” the blond insisted, bringing me out of my thoughts and throwing me a warm grin. Thankful for the break, I went to the room and changed. Once that was done I phoned the police, making sure to give them Demyx's address and not my own.

I arrived back in the kitchen just in time to see my ex taking hold of Demyx's shirt, pull to the side sharply enough to throw the blond off balance, and forced him quickly to the floor. Demyx's head cracked sickeningly against the tile as Marluxia shot to his feet and rushed me. Startled, I tossed my still steaming cup of Ramen in his face. He yelped, but didn't stop. I hurried to detain him, at least until the police arrived, but I was tossed aside like a potato – not even a sack, but a single potato – before he ran further into the house. Regaining my balance, I followed.

When he entered the room and threw the pants aside to reveal the camera, I grinned. Then, when he wheeled on his heels, I tried not to let my triumph show on my face. “Hold it,” he shouted, holding the camera above his head for me to see. “If you make any moves I'll give this tape to the press.”

I felt the sudden urge to go along with it. And as I found myself in need of stalling the man, I did. “How long has that been there?” I gasped, trying to force my face into something akin to 'surprise' and 'fear.' I'd never be half the actor Demyx was, but from the look on Marluxia's face I was at least convincing. A toothy grin spread until it was nearly splitting his face in two.

“About fifteen hours, now, and it's a twenty-four hour tape.” He was oddly ridiculous looking with the ramen noodles stuck in his hair, and his face pink from the hot water. Putting the camera to his face almost made me laugh. I had to remind myself that it was not the time. A groan from the kitchen distracted me for just a second, and suddenly I wasn't acting any more.

When Marluxia turned the camera off I lunged.

We fell to the floor in a mess of limbs. He tried to protect the camera as I beat him with my elbows, not trusting my fists to do much damage. Aiming for the kidneys did the trick quickly enough. Within seconds the man was in a ball around the camera, clutching his abdomen and gasping for air. Outside there were sirens, and in a last-ditch attempt to keep stalling I made a grab for the camera.

All I got for my trouble was an elbow in my face, a busted lip, and one of my front teeth falling loose in my mouth. I stumbled back, spitting the tooth to the floor so I wouldn't swallow it, and launched a final last-ditch kick to his spinal cord. He groaned before simply laying there, twitching. It occurred to me at one point while I was tying him up with some of Demyx's belts that I had done some serious damage, but I brushed it off.

Before long there was a knock at the door, and I answered it to find myself face to face with a police officer. “We need an ambulance.”

The police officer stood there, shocked. “Are you okay?”

“I only lost a tooth,” I replied. “My friend might have suffered some head trauma.”

…

I had not been allowed to sit in the waiting room with the others. This was understandable, seeing as I wasn't your average person, and when I'd tried to wait with the rest of the population I had been approached by several people within a small space of time. Instead, I was taken to a bench just outside Demyx's room. (Why there was a bench, I would never know.) There I waited, sitting as uselessly as I could as person after person passed me in the hallway, none of them having any news of the patient I was waiting for.

I didn't know what I was expecting. Maybe for some miracle to present itself and for a doctor to go in, come out, and tell me that Demyx was perfectly fine.

“Hi, I'm Lilo,” a woman suddenly announced from my side, making me jump, her hands flying everywhere at once. At the initial greeting she had waved, then proceeded to make violent movements towards herself. For a second there I thought she'd put her eye out. “You must be Mr. Corazza. It's nice to finally meet you!” For a second following this I thought she'd put _my_ eye out.

“Yes,” I hesitantly confirmed, not quite understanding what was going on. For a moment I spared a thought to my tooth, or lack thereof, that added a series of extra “s”'s to the word. The woman had long black hair, a shapely body, an attractive tan, and bold features. She was quite striking – and familiar. It didn't take long to realize that this woman was Demyx's assistant. “I am. Same to you, Ms...” And it was then that I realized I didn't know her last name. “Lilo.”

She grinned, then motioned a bit more. “You two went to high school together, right?” A quick nod appeased her, and she was all smiles and shits and grins. Thankfully, the following sentence was whispered. “And you're lovers, right?” Even more unsettling than her question was this _very incredibly disturbing_ thing she did with her hands where one was balled up and the other one grabbed it with four fingers, the middle sticking up like a neck and head, and _humped_ it.

Just... wow. That woman. If I were straight, I'd be all over her. She's like a female Demyx with subtitle hands.

Somewhere in my brain, a gear clicked into place, and without any prompting a line spewed from my mouth that I didn't check at the door. “Would you be my cover girlfriend?”

“You mean like, 'Hi, I'm Zexy-poo's girlfriend,' to the press and people you meet, but in reality I'm just an excuse to spend time with Demyx?” One of her eyebrows rose, and her hands moved so fast I couldn't see them.

“Umm...” Trying to catch all that she said, I managed a small, “Yes?”

She shrugged, then began to braid her fingers – or at least, that's what it looked like. “I got nothin' against that. I'm that way, too. It's just, you know, I'm going to need you to cover transportation. Can't exactly afford regular plane tickets on an assistant's salary.”

Lilo the Lesbian. The world works in mysterious ways.

“I'm going to have to clear it with Demyx first, though.”

“Yeah,” she deadpanned. “Otherwise he'll find some way to voodoo curse you to the afterlife. Or not. He never showed much interest in the how-to book I told him him about.”

We chatted for a while after that, like friends do during a football game when they have absolutely no interest in sports what-so-ever. Every so often I would glance toward the room, waiting for the door to open and for a doctor to come out. Only when a Doctor went in did I realize there weren't any Doctors in there to begin with, and I felt as if I were both upside-down and stupid.

Intercepting the Doctor when he left the room, I prepared myself for the worst. “How is he?”

After giving me a long, skeptical look, almost as if not quite believing his eyes, the man replied, “Go in and see for yourself. Friends can visit, now.” His tone was clipped, but in a way that belied awe instead of disgust. I knew he'd seen my desperate stare at the door when he first went in, which was probably what was throwing him off. Would it be logical for one of the world's most well known scientists to be in his hospital – missing a tooth of all things – mooning outside the door of one of the most prominent directors in America?

No. It was not logical. Therefore confusion was imminent.

When I entered I found that I wasn't alone. Demyx's parents were there, too. They were arguing softly under their breath.

About Religion, it seemed. And about us.

“ – my son wouldn't walk around with some Heathen,” a woman hissed. Tall, thin, with blonde hair cascading to her waist in delicate curls. “He knows better.”

Adjusting his belt, a man that outstripped her in height by a good seven inches, shifted dark blue eyes to the man in the sickbed. Reaching a hand up, he ran thin fingers through short blond hair. From the easy way he did this, and the slight shake of his hand, it was obviously a nervous habit. “By your logic your son is a Heathen.” After a moment of confusion, I recognized him. My eye twitched.

“My logic?” The woman looked aghast. “It is the Lord's word-”

“It is your interpretation.”

“ – and don't you _dare_ insinuate that my son does not know better.”

“All right, now,” a third person put in. He was a man a bit wider in stature than the other two with brown hair and blue eyes. “No one even said our son was gay.”

Raising an eyebrow, I looked upon Demyx's parents with surprise. “What's going on here?” I could feel Lilo stepping into place behind me.

“Nothing more than an out of hand comment gone wrong,” the man announced. “How have you been, Mr. Corazza?”

“I think we know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis, Luxord.” A bland grin later, some of the tension seemed to dissolve. “Mr. and Mrs. O'Donohue,” I addressed.

“Zexion!” Demyx's mother greeted enthusiastically, coming forward to wrap me I a hug. The woman was insufferable. “But if you're here why is he? Aren't you his main contact?” It was then that it occurred to me that the aforementioned heathen that Demyx was accused of running around with had not been specified as yours truly.

Trying not to shrug – I was in the professional capacity at that point – I calmly replied, “The number they have to contact is my home line in New York. As you can see, I am not.”

“Not what?”

“In New York.” God, I hate that woman. Not for any actual reason – aside from the homophobia thing – she just rubbed me wrong. “I was able to get a hold of his assistant, however-”

“Hi!” Lilo waved enthusiastically from behind me. (No, I did not need to look to know this.)

“-so none of you have to worry about if he has work of any kind for a while.”

“Liar – he has an interview in two days,” the woman accused. All eyes turned on me. When she saw this she winced. “Sorry! That was a joke!”

“Well,” the blond woman drawled slowly, “all joking aside, we have to get going. We're glad to see that he's stable, but not glad enough to miss work. If you'll excuse us...” And with that she led her husband out of the room. Luxord followed close on their heels with a nod in my direction, and Lilo not long after that, apparently determined to get a hold of the doctor.

So there I was, all alone in Demyx's room, and I couldn't avoid seeing him any more.

Turning toward the bed, I stared down at the white sheets encasing the still body of my boyfriend. His hair hadn't been styled after our “escapades,” and hung limp around his face the way it had in college. There was a bandage wrapped around his forehead, with specks of red where the blood from the wound had seeped through. Thankfully, there wasn't much. Reaching up, almost out of habit, I brushed a few strands of hair out of his face. It was apparently enough to wake him.

He groaned, opening his eyes slowly, then blinking away a supposed blur. “Where 'm I?”

“Hospital,” I told him, trailing my fingers down to cup his cheek. “And I figure...” Losing nerve, I stopped midsentence.

He gave me an odd look at this. “What?”

“Okay,” I mused. “Time to come clean about a few things.”

Demyx looked up at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I wasn't a complete virgin when we first started going out.” I heaved a heavy sigh. “Back when you were my assistant I was taking a bus out to Tri-Cities every other Saturday night and would wander around until someone picked me up. Then we'd go somewhere – usually a hotel – and... you know. Up until we started dating, though, I was always the pitcher, not the catcher.” He laughed quietly. I huffed. “Most of them prepared in – What?”

“Nothing, really. I just figured it would be something like that.” Grinning, he pulled me down for a kiss. Thankful to be alone, I fell into it easily. “I love you,” he whispered when we came up for air, eyes drooping with the effort to stay awake.

Smiling the smile I only gave to him, I stood from my seat and motioned for him to move over. Settling in beside him on the bed, I pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, too.”

I can only assume we fell asleep like that.

…

“Hey, you have to get up!” a familiar voice hissed in my ear. When I grumbled and burrowed my head further into Demyx side a hand came up to shake me. “Visiting hours are almost up, and the doctor will be coming in soon to check on him. Mr. Flynn's not exactly open-minded.”

“Flynn?” I grumbled. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because his son sat next to me in your class.”

At the mention of my teaching career I jolted awake, taking in the woman who was addressing me. Medium height, lithe build, a touch of humor in a serious – “Xion?” I gaped, processing the sigh of scrubs and the name tag. “You became a nurse.” Standing from the bed, I relocated myself to the chair as she fixed Demyx's bedding.

She huffed, blue eyes narrowing in distaste. “I'm an intern, thank you very much. In six months I'll have a license to practice.”

Sparing a chuckle at her expense, I took in her appearance. It hadn't changed a bit since she was in college. Short black hair, bright blue eyes, flawless pale skin, and fingernails chewed to within an inch of their lives. “And how is Mr. Atkin Downes these days, aside from showing up in people's hospital rooms and having religious discussions with the parents of sick people?”

“Still the Dean.” Then, as if remembering something, she laughed.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

She spared me a grin, running a finger through her bangs to brush them from her eyes. “Sometimes he gets all paranoid that I'm not going to want him now that he turns forty next month. Haven't decided if I should let him sweat it or just tell him I don't care.” Holding out her hand, face dead serious, she said, “That'll be a penny.”

Surrendering to her will, I fished around my pocket for a coin. Finding myself short of pennies, I handed her a dime. She stored it in her name tag. “So how old are you, now? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”

“A woman never tells,” she teased. “Although I will say that in four months I will be celebrating the fourth time I've turned twenty-five.”

“Four years of experience being twenty-five?” I whistled jokingly. “Wow – what are the men of the world to do?”

“Fall to my knees in worship, of course,” she joked back. It was nice to see that side of her. As a teacher I'd rarely come into contact with it. But that life was far behind me. “So, who confessed first?” she asked, throwing me off kilter.

“Excuse me?”

“Demyx seems more of the type, but you never know.”

“Mrs. Atkin-Downes,” I demanded. “You will clarify. Now.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're out of practice – the stern teacher look doesn't suit you any more.” I glared. She raised an eyebrow. I crossed my arms. She tapped her foot. I raised an eyebrow to mimic her. She sighed. “Well? Who spilled the beans that they liked the other first? You or Demyx? We've been trying to settle the pool for ten years, now.” After this her eye twitched, and mine widened in concealed horror.

“A pool, huh?” I drawled. “So the class had a bet going, then?”

“'Has,' Mr. Corazza. 'Has,'” she corrected. At that moment, Mr. Flynn walked in, all wrinkles and grins.

“Any change, Mrs. Atkin-Downes?” he asked joyfully.

Someone was having a good day.

“Other than the recorded consciousness five hours ago, there's been no change,” Xion supplied, grinning as well. 

…

“My birthday's coming up.”

I didn't bother to look up at the speaker – Lilo. “Yes, I know.”

The setting was Demyx's kitchen, just barely three months after the break-in. Lilo was leaning over the counter, I was cooking (as always,) and my blond muffin was somewhere in the living room watching movies with Lilo's new girlfriend, Kida.

“You should plan something special for the press.”

“You seem to doubt my abilities to impress the American public.” Glancing up at her, I smiled. “There will be something, and it will be impressive.”

“Ooh – goodie!” she squeaked with excitement. “Can you tell me what it is?”

“No.”

“Please?!”

“No.”

“Please please please please please?” the woman repeated, spreading her arms over the counter until she was practically spread across it like peanut butter. “With a UFO on top?”

I paused comically. “I do like UFOs…”

She perked up at this.

“No.”

Lilo wilted, and eventually slunk back into the living room. And for a moment I was blissfully alone.

Then arms wound around my waist; strong ones, with a tan and freckles running up their lengths. “Hey, honey,” Demyx whispered into my ear.

“Careful, I'm frying stuff,” I whispered bemusedly, motioning toward the wok.

“Smells amazing.” He nuzzled my ear. “Marry me?”

I grinned. “Maybe later; I'm cooking.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too – now get out of my kitchen.”

The End


End file.
